Falling From Earth
by enderrushi
Summary: -Where Aziraphale and Crowley attend the same College- Already aware of his Demonic nature, Crowley has accepted that at the age of 21, he must enter into servitude to...Him. He can feel the angelic vibes coming off Aziraphale a mile away, though he gets the feeling he has no clue about what he is. This should be fun. ()rly bad at summaries, please read! You won't regret it...
1. Demon Intervention

**_Already aware of his Demonic and immoral nature from the age of sixteen, Crowley has accepted that at the age of 21, he must enter a thousand lifetimes of servitude to...Him. Though rather reluctantly. So what - he has issues with authoritative figures, what gives? Aziraphale however, remains blissfully ignorant of his true stature and pointedly ignores the strange happenings that seem to occur around him defiantly. He has no interest in this biblical supernatural nonsense, thank you very much._**

 **I'm diving right into the action, mkay. Ain't nobody got time for that. Future chapters shall provide any needed illumination, I promise.  
DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN EITHER CHARACTER, NOR THE WORLD OF GOOD OMENS. ****Thankfully, they both dutifully belong to the radiance of Neil Gaiman and the late Sir Terry Pratchett. RIP Terry, I miss you.**

* * *

Crowley examined what stood in front of him, somewhat bemusedly. Aziraphale's languid form swirled and bopped around the small recording studio; his glasses were missing, his eyes were closed and his pale-golden locks that curled around his neck and jaw were being tossed from side-to-side as he whirled his limbs about in a bizarre, (bordering on retarded) swaying fashion. Some sort of orchestral composition was singing out of the speaker system glued to the wooden panelled walls - it was apparently familiar to the idiot flailing about in a strangely dignified manner, as Aziraphale hummed along to the different strains in the melody.

Crowley was really trying very hard not to laugh, like really hard. He leaned casually against the door-frame and folded his arms across his chest, then arranged his face into what he hoped was a smug expression, lowered his glasses down the bridge of his nose and cocked a shapely eyebrow. All just in time for Aziraphale to twirl around, arms outstretched, with his eyes glazed open in an exuberant expression of self enjoyment. Sadly his exuberance and body froze as he instantly locked gaze with Crowley. There was a momentary silence before-

" _Fuc-_

"-king fantastic dancing there, angel." Crowley smiled widely, flashing his white teeth.

Aziraphale faltered and lowered his arms from above his head, a blush swiftly reddening his ivory cheeks. "Shut up," he glowered at Crowley, his good mood vanishing like a popped soap bubble. Crowley couldn't help but laugh at him, earning a deeper flush to rise up Aziraphale's neck.

"Calm down twinkletoes, words from the heart you know. I'm mortally wounded." He grinned and unfolded his arms, sauntering into the room as Aziraphale turned away to the speakers and dialed it down till the music was all but muted. Crowley put a boot on the chair before the mixing table and lifted himself up onto the top; he sat amongst the switches and dials. "Hurt the soul and it clips the wings; I won't be able to fly back to hell."

"Very funny. I thought I was the one with the wings? Or was I misinformed by a lousy, snake-eyed piece of demon crap?" Aziraphale turned back to him, across from the counter, still pink in the face but scowling all the same.

Crowley raised a hand to his chest and clutched at his t-shirt, "Ouch. You're in a lousy temper this morning; I didn't know you were so sensitive about your dance skills. And that's true for both of us I'll have you know - wings aren't just for you do-gooders, we get the deal too."

Aziraphale sighed exasperatedly and rolled his eyes, crossing the room to his canvas rucksack and stuffing the contents back within the depths. "Aside from jealously mocking my dance skills, did you have another intention for visiting me?" the boy asked with his back to Crowley again. Sunlight streaming in from the only window bounced off the back of his white-blonde head, making his hair shine golden. _He really is an angel,_ Crowley mused. He dragged his eyes off of Aziraphale's locks and redirected his attention on answering the question.

"Err.." he started. _Shit._ What _was_ his reason for coming to find Aziraphale? He just seemed to have done it unconsciously, he knew he was looking for him..But wasn't exactly sure why. _Shit. Shit. Bloody shit. Errr think. Angels..? Advice..? The sorry but we're kind of meant to oppose each other from now on chat? I'm meant to beat the shit out of you? Wanna hang out toni-no. No. Music? Music. Safe._ "The Music project thing, remember? We still haven't decided a genre for composition due to your whole.." he waved his hand, struggling for the words, "..Freaking out fad." He managed to drawl the words successfully without any hesitation. Sounding bored was a talent that came naturally to Crowley. That and lying.

Aziraphale stiffened, quickly pulling the drawstrings tight on his bag with a snap, then he swung around and stepped forward to Crowley.

"What do you _mean_ my _'freaking out fad'_? You say that as if it's unreasonable to be a tad astonished to find out that you're actually a supernatural being and the guy standing in front of you is only out to corrupt you! I think it's more than reasonable, _if_ you're even telling the bloody truth…" his blue eyes were sparkling with annoyance, his skin still a little flushed and his face was a lot closer to Crowley's than it had before.

Crowley grinned at the sudden transition despite himself; Aziraphale was pretty hot when he was angry. Everything seemed enhanced somehow, now that he was in a passion - it was like someone above had suddenly upped the contrast; eyes bluer, expression finer; the crinkles of anger between his brow seemed like cracks set in stone. His mouth was redder and fuller, his lips slightly parted with uneven breaths filtering between them…That lower lip was just begging to be bitten. Crowley struggled to tear his gaze back up to Aziraphale's eyes. He steeled himself.

"Look, angel-" he started, jumping down from the mix table to stand in front of him.

"-Would you _please_ stop calling me that-"

"-Alright, alright angel," Crowley waved him off, "There's no point getting all riled up about it - it's what you are. You can't run from it, angel-cake."

Aziraphale opened his mouth furiously but Crowley cut him off.

"Look. _Aziraphale_ , happy?" he didn't wait for an answer, "You're an angel no matter what you think, you ignore me now and brush me off, hey that's fine. Come your 21st birthday it won't matter - you'll get the call," he gestured above, "The big guy will want your CV and you won't exactly be able to refuse him - unless of course... You find my crowd more attractive." Crowley showed his most devious smile, lips pulling back over his fangs.

Aziraphale scoffed, looking Crowley up and down. " _Please_ , I don't know if I could survive having peepers like the ones you're sporting. Besides, at least I'd be able to help people if you're actually telling the truth. _You_ only exist to tempt people. Even for you, that's weak."

Crowley took his glasses off and hooked them on the neckline of his top. He fixed his slitted pupils on Aziraphale's dilated ones and composed his most smouldering glare. Many people had fled before this look, he knew. A few members of the opposite sex had even jumped his bones a couple of times because of his sweet ability to get under their skin. He wasn't exactly sure which effect he wanted to inflict upon Aziraphale.

"Are you sure you aren't tempted?" his voice was liquid velvet. God he was just like a walking, talking smoking jacket.

Rouge returned to flood Aziraphale's cheekbones, a happening that made Crowley's stomach do a funny jolt.

"Positive," he quivered stubbornly, "Are _you?"_

Crowley laughed, "You _seen_ these eyes?" he pulled a lower eyelid down with his index finger and waggled his tongue at the angel. "I'm a demon through and through, baby, ain't no escape from that. Besides, I kind of like to watch people flussster." He hissed at Aziraphale, who on cue turned redder than the sun.

"You're disgusting," Aziraphale gave up and shook his head, stepping back from him to lean against the wall across from him. He suddenly looked tired. He sighed, rubbing an elegant hand over his forehead. His fingernails looked well-manicured. Crowley imagined how those fingernails would feel gripping his skin, those long fingers dancing over bare flesh - whoa. Hey.

"You're really not messing with me, huh?" Aziraphale finally asked, his eyes blue and sincere: genuine.

Crowley shook his head and sighed himself, all jokes aside. "'Fraid not."

Aziraphale continued to look at him and then finally nodded. "Well, I guess we have a lot to talk about then. And a composition to create, I assume? Due next Friday, right?"

Crowley smirked, biting down on his lip-ring and shrugged, "Right. Don't sound too excited though, you might burst your halo." Aziraphale hoisted his rucksack onto his back and looked back at the door.

"Oh, I'm excited all right. Angels and Demons - _can't wait_ ," and for the first time that day, Aziraphale looked at Crowley and despite his heavy sarcasm, grinned from ear-to-ear, his teeth flashing wildly making him look awfully gay and wicked. And _attractive._

 _Holy fuck._

"C'mon then, _cobra_. Let's not wait for hell to freeze over; your arse will get cold." _Oh, I could get used to this._

Crowley laughed, chewing at his lip. "Right behind you, angel-cake."

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 **Thanks for reading! Appreciate any reviews, would be _cooool.  
Will be updating soon! ^_^_**


	2. Dealing and Freaking

**Huzzah! We're back. I do enjoy their shenanigans :D but the good stuff is yet to come..muhaha. Single reviewer, I dedicate this chapter allll to you. Thank you for your very kind words, I continue to gush over them. _aw shucks...awkward shuffle_**

 ** _Enjoy!_**

* * *

Aziraphale groaned as his last class of the day ended. He was exhausted and the prospect of having to lug the enormous weight of his books all the way back home on his bicycle made him physically ache. _Still_ , he brightened - at least his flat would be empty; Anathema was still on her Geography trip and Newt hadn't been home in weeks. (He'd turn up sooner or later... Aziraphale imagined they'd probably find him sporting some new kind of fashion statement whilst snoring outside the front door, as he was constantly forgetting his keys). But the absence of his flatmates meant that he could have a nap in peace and get started with his work earlier. He could work at the table in the living room rather than having to squish all his schoolwork onto the squalid desk in his room. He stuffed his pencil case and Literature folder into his bag, pausing to squish his copy of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ rather forcefully into the depths. He hurriedly fastened the clasp shut in case it got any ideas of gasping open under all the stress that nearly had it bursting at the seams. Aziraphale really needed another rucksack. Tucking his hair behind an eerily-pointed ear, he readjusted his circular frames. Like most items belonging to Aziraphale, his glasses were ancient and old-fashioned but drastically needed. Hoisting his bag onto his bruised and aching back, he set off to find his battered bicycle that he'd ungracefully dumped this morning in the blazing heat. _Home_ , he thought longingly.

* * *

It wasn't until Aziraphale had safely closed the door behind him and threw himself against it, that he allowed the glaringly loud oddity-of-the-day that was _Crowley_ to enter his head. He shrugged off his rucksack and let it sink to the floor with a soft _thunk_ whilst he thought. Crowley. The _"demon"._ Although he supposed it was just _d_ _emon_ now: he could lose the quotation marks - Crowley's eyes spoke for themselves... Demon or not, whatever he was, it certainly wasn't human. Aziraphale trudged to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He needed caffeine. Or maybe Cocoa. Maybe both. Urghh. _There was too much to think about. Too much to process._

He thought it through again; they'd arranged to meet up tomorrow after school. _Here,_ Aziraphale groaned. After his embarrassing encounter at lunch - that still made him want to gouge his eyes out with heavy-duty pliers - Crowley had said they needed to speak somewhere in private. Aziraphale had been quick to suggest that he'd be perfectly happy to meet him during school hours but Crowley told him he didn't want to risk being overheard. He didn't ask how Crowley knew where he lived nor did Crowley mention how he'd be getting there. Somehow Aziraphale didn't imagine he'd ask for a lift on his bike...The sudden image of the two of them cycling a tandem sprang to mind. Aziraphale snorted on his tea.

Suffice it to say that Crowley unnerved Aziraphale. He was his polar opposite; loud and obnoxious, constantly at ease with himself yet constantly in-your-face and infuriatingly condescending. He'd always acted like he knew more than he was letting on - now of course, Aziraphale knew why.

Crowley had a reputation as a bit of a deviant. He was a troublemaker - he was always messing around in their Musical Studies class. But he was clever, _vastly_ intelligent (he knew everything about _everything_ ) and talented and...supposedly something of a looker. In a bad-ass, nineties rocker-kid look kind of way. If you were into that sort of thing. Which Aziraphale _was not_ , anyway. The girls in their music class had said that Crowley dressed in a way that screamed sex. Aziraphale still didn't know what that meant, but he supposed that it must be a good thing because many of the girls _and_ guys in Aziraphale's year had eyes on him. Crowley knew all this, though. And that made him an arse. _God,_ he was such an arse. Plus there were those people he hung around with...

Surprisingly, Aziraphale felt a little saddened by Crowley. Beneath all the disgust and annoyance..He felt a smidgen of sympathy. At how far he had fallen...It was kind of pitiful. He had so much potential. He felt somehow that Crowley would continue to plummet, further into a world of dark, that he would sink into the devastating shadows that had haunted him thus... _Hmmm_. Maybe he'd had too much of English today. All this poetry was rubbing off on him.

Anyway.

Apparently Aziraphale was an angel. Ha. This concept he was still struggling with, though he supposed he'd learn more about just exactly _what_ that meant tomorrow. _No, don't think about that.._  
This angel had essays to write.

He twined his fingers around his mug and carried it back into the living room, dragging his bag up onto the round dining table in the corner of the room. The flat he shared with Anathema and Newton was strangely spacious for student lodgings but it had very sparse furnishings. However with the belongings of all three of them strewn about the place, it looked fairly cluttered. The living room operated as both the living and dining area, consisting of one battered sofa, a towering bookcase stacked and stuffed with books of every shape and size, various multi~coloured rugs (spread over the wooden floor at Anathema's insistence) and the ancient table Aziraphale sat at. He figured he'd start with his English Language work first...He upended his rucksack onto the table; its contents tumbling and splattering out all at once. Seizing the necessary utensils, he grabbed his books and notepad. Tonight looked like another all-nighter...

* * *

The next day all seemed to pass in a blur. What with Anathema and Newt absent, Aziraphale felt no marker in his day to safely detach himself from the world of _work_ and study and eat and rest and - _worry._ _Worry worry worry wor-._ Breathe and breathe and pheeeeeew, ahhhhh. Better. He was not an almighty-powerful angel sent down from the heavens to mingle with the other mortal, human life-forms so he could learn their ways and chop them up for dissection. He was student. Man. Boy. That bookish one who sits with the redhead and the _weirdo._ He was Aziraphale, he was _normal_. He was _fine._ He'd deal with the worry later. When a certain cretin showed his unsightly face. In fact Aziraphale had passed the whole day with neither sight nor sound of Crowley - which suited him just fine. He'd sat with a group of Anathema's (unfortunately) more gossip-y friends at lunch and had tried to ignore the high-pitched giggling and raucous squealing they tended to make when something was just un-BOH- _lievable!_ He'd read in silence (only surfacing when shouted at for his opinion on certain _scoundrels)_ and shoveled down many a spoonful of cream cake before re-joining class and eventually cycling home at 2.30 when his lessons ended for the day.

He planned to work for a bit before napping for an hour. Before he..Before he'd have to. Urgh. Well. _It'll be.._

 _Time to face the music._ Aha. Haha. Literally...He needed to work on his puns.

Evening swung around in no time at all. (Aziraphale's hour-long nap had accidentally evolved into a four hour-long slumber from which awakening proved difficult and involved a lot of drooling and yawning. Yet, he'd managed it.) The sun setting orange cast a fiery glow in through the living room bay windows, bathing everything in amber light. Aziraphale had just showered and was towel-drying his golden head when there was an irritating knock at the door. How he managed to make the sound of rapping knuckles against wood annoying was impressive. And typical.

 _Typical,_ Aziraphale cursed under his breath.

"Just a minute!" he called out in direction of the living room. He abandoned his hair, shoved on a pair of faded blue jeans and pulled a loose-fitting cotton jumper over his head. It felt blissfully soft on his bare skin and oddly provided some much-needed relief and comfort. Then he darted from his room, into the living room and pulled open the front door.

Sure enough, Crowley stood in the hallway, beaming from head to foot. "This is Newt's house." he announced proudly.

"Y-Yeah.." Aziraphale quickly looked him up and down; Crowley was sporting his usual thumping boots and red-tinted, circular shades but also managed to carry off a faded _Queen_ t-shirt, _very_ skinny black-skinny jeans and he'd tied an open long-sleeved checkered shirt around his waist. A wallet chain glinted as it dangled from the pockets of his jeans. Aziraphale also noticed a guitar case strapped to his back.

"I didn't know you guys were roomies! I didn't even know you guys were friends at all, actually.." Crowley stepped inside, past Aziraphale who hadn't even been about to say _'Come on in'_ but he shoved the door closed after him anyway, already shooting daggers at his back.

Crowley admired the living room, letting out a low whistle. "This place is pretty big.."

"Yeah. We got a good deal with the owner of this block. All the flats are student-housing, but Anathema's mother is friendly with the woman who lets it out so...She's the other girl who lives here. Anathema." Aziraphale added to Crowley's look of inquiry, "I share with her and Newton."

Crowley raised an eyebrow and nodded, "Right." He was eyeing Aziraphale's damp hair, which was now springing into curls. His gaze gradually trailed down Aziraphale's person until they spotted his bare feet, then his eyes flicked back up to his hair. Aziraphale resisted the urge to squirm.

"How'd you get here?" he asked loudly, wanting to break the uncomfortable, stubborn stare as quickly as possible. Crowley seemed to snap out of it.

"Oh, I have a car." he smiled deviously.

"Convertible?"

"..Yeah."

Ah. That explains the hair. " _Thought_ so-do you want a drink? Tea or Coffee or something?" he asked immediately before Crowley could intercept him. Impatience with him was already setting in.

"Got anything stronger?" he peered over his sunglasses at him, looking peevish.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at him but said almost reluctantly, "There's cider in the fridge."

"That'll do, angel." he said, instantly sparking the first of many death glares from Aziraphale. Crowley instead pretended not to notice and lugged off the guitar from his back.

 _"Shoes,"_ Aziraphale muttered furiously under his breath as he entered the kitchen. He guessed Crowley somehow heard him however, because when he returned Crowley's scuffed boots stood next to the door. _Huh_. Apparently demons have really good hearing. _Great,_ he thought bitterly. Add that to the list of the hundreds of things he can use against me. Crowley himself had sprawled out on the sofa, his guitar laid across his knees, strumming idly.

"Here," Aziraphale dropped the can of cider into his reach. Crowley yelped when the cold came into contact with the skin of his arm. Since he'd taken the sofa Aziraphale seized a flowery-looking armchair they usually left at the table and dragged it over to sit opposite Crowley. He sat on the edge and balanced his coffee on his knee. Crowley watched the proceedings with the usual smirk and cocked eyebrow. Aziraphale's temper flared.

"I wonder, do you practice being a douchebag or does it just come naturally to you?"

Crowley never missed a beat. "Uh, _demon_ ," he smiled ruefully, "But yeah, every night before bed."

Aziraphale's lips twitched. He shook off the chuckle bubbling up and instead regarded the instrument, "Why did you bring a guitar?"

Crowley looked amused. He cracked open the can of cider. " _Music_ project, remember? I'm not here for a candle lit dinner, y'know." He took a sip.

Aziraphale scowled at him, pink grazing over his cheekbones. He brushed a hand through his pale hair, pushing it off his forehead and raised his coffee to his mouth. Crowley lurched forwards, re-establishing himself on the sofa and leaning over his acoustic to Aziraphale.

"I was thinking heavy death metal. Full on _KISS_ ; make-up, headbanging, the outrageous exposure of tongue, the lot." When he got no response from the angel's pallid face, he added, "That was a joke, angel."

Aziraphale looked at him. "Right. Good one."

Crowley sighed dramatically. Aziraphale was sure something insulting about his good self was being muttered under the coal-haired idiot's breath.

"I was just sort of hoping to deal with the whole biblical-supernatural-life-changing thing that's going to happen to me first. Then we can move onto how bad your jokes suck."

Crowley clutched at his heart, mouthing _Ouch._ Aziraphale groaned, rolling his eyes and he collapsed further into his seat. Crowley laughed, delighted with how easy the angel was to irritate.

"Alright, alright angel. _Sure_ we can deal with the _life-changing_ stuff first." His face looked serious enough but his tone betrayed him; sarcasm. Aziraphale gripped his mug tighter. He breathed calmly.

 _"Wh-"_

"-Strictly speaking, I'm not really meant to be telling you any of this." Crowley moved his guitar to rest against the arm of the sofa.

Aziraphale paused, raising an eyebrow. "Then why are you?"

That did it. Crowley stared at Aziraphale blankly. Aziraphale smiled a little, smug at catching him off guard. He blew innocently on his coffee. Crowley started chewing on his lip ring, face still seemingly vacant. Then with a flurry of movement he shrugged and put his hands behind his head.

"Just figured I'd give you a head start is all."

Aziraphale looked coldly at him from around his mug. "How kind of you."

Crowley grinned and jolted upright - "So, _what d'ya wanna know?"_

* * *

 **.. _Annnd we're gonna leave it there folks._**


	3. Ruminating Upon the Sushi Hypothesis

**sorry for the waiting gap there..I got busy. But _that's_ _life_ , _I suppose_ \- you go along and then _suddenly-_**

 _ **poof. (** Calm down, Horace. **)**_

 _ **I just wanna write what I want to but I'M BOUUUND. BOUND BY THE CHAPTERS. THE INCRIMINATING BASTARDS. But yeah, I'll try very hard.**_ _ **Also I apologise that the chapters are quite brief, I have a very short attention span but I'll try to work on t-hey look a squirrel!**_

 _ **(yes that was my attempt at being funny shutyourfaceandjustreadthefuckingthing)**_

* * *

 _Why don't you just ruminate whilst I illuminate the possibilities?_

* * *

"Okay, I'll give you the gist." Crowley swept his black hair out of his eyes in a very diva-like fashion and pushed his small frames up the bridge of his nose. The orange glare coming through the windows glinted off his sunglasses and dyed his skin with heat. Aziraphale nodded, his stomach suddenly jittery.

"Well," Crowley fidgeted, "Like I said, come your 21st you'll be contacted (I don't know how. I don't know any of that _holy spirit stuff)_ and then some time after that you'll be _summoned_ , that's when you make the deal - providing you're not killed by then, that is - Oh don't worry, you'll make it. S' _very_ unlikely - oh, don't look like that. It's just... Some baby demons out there like to, er...how can I put it?...Er - rip out the weeds before they take root-"

"-I'm a _weed?_ " Aziraphale deadpanned. " _I'm_ the weed? Are you shitting me? I might be targeted and _killed._ _For sport?! But somehow I'm the botanical pest?"_ Aziraphale gaped at him, white-faced and furious.

Crowley waved him off with his hands. "Calm down. _Relax_. No old-timer is gonna come after you with a pitchfork... It's mainly just newbies that take to it. But only ones that know what they are, that they're demons. Fau _w_ ns, they call 'em. If they don't know, they'll just continue on their merry way, breaking shit and being bad-tempered but they won't know why. Same with newbie angels, you probably don't know anything until that holy spotlight hits you. Blind in the dark. Like you were." Crowley took a big swig of cider and gestured to Aziraphale with the can.

"All you know is that.." he thought for a moment, "Strange things happen to you, or they occur around you? I don't know exactly how it is for your kind. But you'll feel drawn to certain people; other angels, other demons. But newbies won't know why they are."

Aziraphale sat still for a second, his brain working to take it all in. He processed.

"I'm not drawn to you," he said finally.

The look Crowley flashed him was enough to make a blush creep up Aziraphale's neck. Crowley smiled, biting his lip ring and took another swig of cider, "You keep telling yourself that."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes but otherwise avoided Crowley's gaze. He placed his coffee on the rug by his chair, feeling the need to fidget; he pulled his legs up on to the chair cushion and curled a protective arm around his knees, as if he expected Crowley to suddenly hiss and strike at him. It was also an attempt to dispel the sudden tension thickening his body.

He thought some more about what Crowley had told him. "So," Aziraphale looked at him, "So you're a-a _fau_ w _n,_ then? Because you know that you're a demon."

"I'm not going to kill you if that's what you're worried about."

"I'm not," Aziraphale said instantly, "I'm just..." he trailed off.

"What?" Crowley prompted.

"How is it that you know you're a demon? You're not 21 yet so..Who told you-were you contacted by someone, another demon? I mean you know all this. I..I didn't know anything... so how?"

Crowley didn't answer him. Aziraphale glowered at him and furrowed his brow in frustration, sighing impatiently. A laugh flickered on Crowley's face.

"I mean, you must be pretty far along the curve with eyes like yours-"

"-Been gazing into them have we-"

"- _and_ you've worn those sunglasses ever since my first year, so... You must have known for a long time-" Aziraphale paused, suddenly astounded that it had taken him this long to wonder how exactly it was that Crowley had eyes like that.. "Were your eyes always like that.. or-or did you do something _evil_ an-and-" Aziraphale grimaced in disgust, "And corruption just _fouled_ your soul and rotted out your eyeballs?" A large part of Aziraphale felt giddy at all the dramatic and disgusting possibilities but he'd never admit that. Just like he'd never admit that he actually quite liked horror films.

Crowley looked taken aback at the angel's enthusiasm, "Oddly poetical... I don't know whether to be insulted or impressed-"

Aziraphale was barely listening. "- _Eyes_ are the window to the soul.." he muttered, biting his thumbnail and wondering if he'd stumbled onto something.

Crowley raised his eyebrows, still impressed. Aziraphale thought more upon that idea... And Crowley's eyes were... Well. If the above was true, he really was spat out of hell. He suddenly had the intense desire to see them properly, he wanted to fully understand. He wanted a closer look. He unfolded his legs and clambered from his seat on his urge, trying to ignore the fact that this meant he'd have to be fairly close to the demon which would probably, at the least, be fairly unsettling.

"Can I see?" he asked.

* * *

"Can I see?" he asked. Crowley's eyebrows were so far up his forehead he figured he should just staple them there, the amount of times he was fucking raising them.

 _Can I deny you anything?_

Aziraphale looked so earnest standing there, asking all politely and just... Ugh. _Dammit_. Damn this kid.

"Sure," he shrugged, swiped his glasses from his face and hooked them on his neckline. Aziraphale sat down right next to him, so he turned to face him. He was very close and peering into his-

"Wait," the angel got up, snatched something off the far table and sat back down, shoving them on his face. His grandad specs. Those enormous, round spectacles that he managed to make look good with his silver-blonde hair.

The blue-eyed angel with moondust in his hair. _Fuck_.

Fuck for so many reasons. Like _fuck_ , _what was he doing?_ Fuck he should be a fucking poet. Fuck was he in the wrong career.

Aziraphale, now equipped with the blessing of sight, was peering into Crowley's eyes.

"Snake-eyes.." Aziraphale muttered, waking him back to life. Hello. "You must be pretty bad at poker, then."

Crowley started. The smile slowly woke up his mouth, half hanging open. He-He had...Bloody hell. The angel had-

"Wow. You made a joke." And he laughed as Aziraphale instantly glared at him.

"Don't worry. It won't happen again." he snapped, "Wouldn't want you to burst into _flames_ or something.."

"Two for two. Must be my lucky day."

* * *

Examining Crowley's eyes up close may have been a mistake. He found his gaze darting around to various other features of Crowley's face and setting up shop there. _No_ , his brain ordered.

Crowley's skin looked flawless, he had no freckles or moles at all. Not like Aziraphale who practically found a new one everyday. His skin was dark, faintly copper but his hair was jet black. His eyes seemed rimmed with red, as if he'd been suffering from a lack of sleep. His nose was long but buttonish, unlike Aziraphale's ski-slope of a nose. He supposed he could see why the girls in his year dizzied themself with Crowley. He looked cool. In a major arsehole kind of way. _A pity he has to open his mouth really,_ Aziraphale thought evily. His mouth... Well. He-he had a normal mouth. Big. His lips were full and.. Erm red. Very red. Distinctively rouge, if he had to put a fine point on it really. And then he had that lip ring, the silver hoop embedded in his bottom lip, which was... Er. There.

ahem.

Speaking of mouths, his had gone suddenly very dry.

Okay, down to the matter of the thing. Crowley's eyes were yellow. A bright, golden yellow. Slightly mottled and deeply unnerving. There was no white of the eyeball and no distinctive ring of an iris, just a black pupil, like a whip of ink, slitted and beady. He didn't really blink much, Aziraphale noted. Hmph. That was creepy.

He suddenly realised there had been a steady, comfortable quiet for about ten seconds whilst Aziraphale had been-quite literally-gazing into his eyes. He immediately regretted his decision to move this close to Crowley. The piercing eyes were now flickering up and down Aziraphale's person, probably readying their owner to pounce.

"Okay then," he blurted loudly, forgetting why exactly this was an idea of his. Crowley had weird eyes, that was that and let's move on now please whilst his brain was still capable of moving his lips to form coherent sentences, "You are definitely a creature of the deep. Beyond help, beyond saving - no life jacket or rubber dingy for you sir, you are going down with the ship to visit Atlantis-"

Slender fingers fluttered out to lift Aziraphale's chin, immediately halting his progress of squirming away. Crowley leaned towards him, "Are you sure you don't want a closer look, angel?"

His voice was low and thrilling, his throat aching with the exhilarating ripple of temptation that drove a metal rod in between Aziraphale's ribs. It pierced his heart so that flashes of heat squeezed into his chest and trickled down through his torso. He held back a shiver of repulsion and something else that quivered deliciously beneath his skin.

"Positive." he batted Crowley's hand away, his own voice stabbing the tentative air like ice, shattering the dreadful moment. Crowley reclined back against the sofa as Aziraphale scooted backwards, away from his reach. It wasn't a surprise to see that Crowley was grinning like a fox.

"I scare you, don't I?" he said, curling his tongue behind his teeth, a satisfied smirk blossoming on his face. Aziraphale reeled and scoffed, whipping his glasses off and crumpling them in his hand.

" _Please._ You repulse me. But _frighten_ me? No."

"Come on! I totally do. Admit it. You're scared that I know more about you than you do. That I know exactly how to play you, and that everything you're feeling - I made you feel it."

"You know nothing about me. And just what is it that I'm meant to be feeling? _Disgust?_ Pity for you? Pity for _myself?"_

Crowley laughed huskily and shook his head. He leaned his elbows on his kneecaps. "No. You feel alive. Exhausted. So full of life that you're about to burst. Don't you get it yet, angel? You're different. You're meant for something else. Something greater than anything on Earth. You're a supernatural being. We're the stuff of legends for crying out loud..well. Maybe some of us have some growing and pissing around to do before any of that but-we have wings, for hell's sake. All we have to do now is fall. Up or down, it doesn't matter. You just have to let go and you'll amaze yourself with how much power you have. Raw power. Stuff you were born with- didn't you want to help make people better? Humans? Who are, by default, naturally bad people. Naturally flawed. So open to-"

"Humans aren't innately evil." Aziraphale stuck his chin out angrily.

Crowley chewed his lip, eyes amused. "I never said evil."

"No, but that's what you mean. _Naturally bad_ , _flawed._ People aren't born morally corrupt. We're born _flawed_ , of course we are. We have faults, imperfections. That is, by definition what humans are; flawed. We try. No one is perfect - such a concept doesn't exist-it's a paradox built by man. Humanity is naturally flawed, yes but it all depends on your upbringing, what's taught to be good and bad. But people aren't _evil by nature_ -"

Aziraphale started, his eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened.

"What?"

"That's what you're doing, isn't it. You're _tempting me_ , right now. Trying to convince me that-that since _all_ humanity is evil and worthless anyway so there's no point trying to change them? No point trying to do any good, is that it? So I might as well just kick back with you and watch the games begin? As shitty little cretins eat away at people's souls?"

"Hey, just what exactly do you think demons do? We don't go around murdering humans with pitchforks or setting them on fire, tormenting them with our pointed beards and angry eyes. It's just a nudge! That's all it is! We put the _idea_ in their minds, just a _thought._ They do all the rest of the work themselves-they don't _have_ to do it. That's the whole point- _ineffability_. It's their choice. Don't make it out like all humans are saints, alright?

"Then don't just recognise the bad and weakness in people! Try to-"

"-Angel-"

"- _listen-_ "

"- _Aziraphale,_ "

"What?"

"I'm a demon yeah? That's kinda what I do, see the sin in people. Set it on fire. You get it?"

"You're not a demon _yet-"_

 _"-I do actually know of a way to save my soul-"_

"You shouldn't be so eager to-"

 _"-although it does involve a lot of tongue and great exposure of skin-"_

Aziraphale kicked him with his bare foot.

"Crowley. Shut. _Up_."

Crowley's eyes performed the familiar flick from Aziraphale's foot to his waist to his eyes. This time accompanied by a teasing smile. Aziraphale quickly snatched his foot back.

"Make me."

Aziraphale sighed and raked a hand over his face. Crowley was right about the feeling exhausted part. Although the fatigue seemed to threaten three parts Crowley and only one part eternal-angelic-destiny.

"If I punch you in the face, do I get my angel status removed?" he mumbled into his palm. He bet Crowley was smirking, he just _knew_ it.

"You could try it...but I doubt those delicate knuckles of yours could do much damage."

"Maybe I'll kick you instead-"

"-with those feet-"

"-but on second thoughts I do have a taser in my bag."

Crowley mimed zipping his lip and smiled sheepishly. He held up an index finger.

"What?" Aziraphale asked suspiciously.

"I have a proposition."

Aziraphale was going to regret this. He sighed and stood up, holding his hands on his hips. He raised an eyebrow.

"And what is that?"

Crowley's face lit up.

"That we get sushi."

...Aziraphale blinked. That he was not expecting.

He started, "Wh-"

"- _and_ we should be friends. But we should definitely do the sushi thing first cos I'm pretty hungry."

* * *

 _ **Yeah...I didn't really know how to end the chapter.**_

 _ **The whole 'Fau**_ **w** _ **n' thing is me being an idiot, I liked both ideas of bab demons being like baby deer and like the mystical Roman creatures (cos they have hooves and horns and shit and it just seemed fitting okay) so I mixed the two because I'm a dumbass. Just pronounce it how you normally would. Kay. Kay cool.**_

 _ **Next chapter we should be seeing some new faces...fufufufu**_


	4. The Wanderer Returns

_**Enjoy! ^3^**_

* * *

Crowley stumbled against the door frame of his flat, fumbling with his keys. Obviously in his absence the door lock had developed a vendetta against his house key. He pressed the small brass key against the lock in deliberate slow motion and managed to get it in on the fourth go. He shouldered open the door and once he was successfully inside, with all four limbs still miraculously attached to his person, he collapsed against it. It would be a little bit of an understatement to say that Crowley was drunk.  
Absolutely sozzled.  
Plastered.  
Chemically in another place..

...and singing the Looney Tunes theme tune. That was weird. Hell, he had so much in common with bugs bunny; the wit, the attitude, his terminal velocity...the carrots. Sure, maybe he didn't love them as much as bugs but he could give it a shot. Fuck. Who was he kidding. No way did he have the choppers for that shit. Even with _his_ fangs.

He looked around blearily. He'd left the kitchen light on. He dragged himself over to flick the switch off before staggering to his bedroom. Crowley's flat was small and cramped but clean and modern and sophisticated as fuck. He collapsed onto his bed, tugging off his boots so he could kick his jeans off. Easier said than done. Taking a painfully huge amount of effort, due to the unparalleled tight material stretched unbelievably taut over his calves, Crowley struggled with the skinny denim, standing upright so that maybe gravity would take pity on him and help him out. Stumbling, kicking, and swearing loudly, he flung his leg out in too vigorous a motion and hit his bedside table. Furious with pain, he fell back on his bed (pausing only to utter a stream of his choicest swearwords), seized the material bunched around his ankle and yanked his throbbing foot free. He attacked the other ankle and then threw the jeans vexingly at his wardrobe, unfortunately using more force than his exhausted body could muster. A part of his mind wondered vaguely if he'd just pulled his arm from its socket. He paused, and swayed on his feet. Crowley lifted his head and felt his bedroom swirl all over his ceiling. That was cool. He groaned suddenly, feeling bile rise in his throat. He managed to suppress the retch building up in his torso and instead exhaled the sensation away, slowly. He was getting good at that. Which unfortunately meant only one thing.

 _Fuck off,_ he thought stubbornly. _Not now_.

He peeled his t-shirt over his head and fell, exhausted on the bedcovers. Dimly his mind flicked back over the memories of the day whilst he still held consciousness. He licked his lips and tasted sashimi...

 _Ahhh! He remembered - Newt!_ He'd had a text from Newt and had met with him in their favourite bar, that was it. _Ah, that was why_. They had one of their stupid competitions again. When was Pulsifier gonna learn, that he couldn't hope to keep time with a motherfucking demon, yeah. He did pretty fucking well though, Crowley had to admit. But there was something else, something he was forgetting. It had been important. Hmmm...what was it? He fished around vaguely through his murky memory banks, reeling in beyond the vodka, the sushi, the cider, the hair - the hair?... _Wet_ hair. He hadn't had wet hair...but someone had. A thought of pale bare feet blurted to the front of his mind, then flicked away again. Pale gold curls... _Aziraphale_. The _angel_ , that was it. He handled wasabi like a pro. That attractive shitface...Hell, Crowley wanted him. But then again, Crowley wanted everyone. Lechery came with the territory. Crowley's vision blurred and lights danced under his eyelids...his room darkened, and he fell into a deep sleep.

Falling was easy for someone like Crowley. He was devilishly good at it.

 _ **GOOD NIGHT, CROWLEY.**_

* * *

Aziraphale was floating in the dusk. Darkness parted above him. Golden fingers of light splintered the shadows and they were scattered, sent fluttering like thousands of butterflies, cloaked in soot. The light spiraled together in billowing clusters. It shone so brightly, Aziraphale raised his fingers to shield his eyes. Then the world faltered, flickered, and changed. He could smell salt in the fresh, brisk air. There was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds, dancing above the sea. Oh, the sea. Huh. Aziraphale blinked and suddenly he was melting into the clouds...it was so soft...and warm. He sighed in pleasure. There was a sudden rumble and a muffled swell of music radiated from around him. Beneath him. _The clouds,_ he thought... _the wisps of the air, they hummed._ They _sang_ , like the rising melody of a sweet, rhythmic whisper. It got louder. Sharper. Aziraphale winced, his eardrums immediately throbbing. The music was too loud now, the heavenly thrum turning psychotic. _Stop_ , Aziraphale pleaded. The ethereal sound seemed to penetrate his body, his lungs, it bounced around his skull, refracted behind his eyes. It stretched his body taut, as the melody grew, sweet and ice-shatteringly high. His body stretched until it could no more, Aziraphale felt his skin was about to burst. The song screamed, raged in his head, separating into two distinct collisions. The screeching peaked, lashing like a whip onto Aziraphale's brain - loud, so _terribly_ loud. His eyes were streaming - his eardrums had burst, blood ran down his face, coiling around his throat, he choked-

"Aziraphale! Zira!.."

"...Nno...uhhh..."

"Zira, wake up! _AZIRAPHALE DON'T IGNORE ME-_ "

Aziraphale jolted awake, yelled and bolted up from his pillows, terror blazed in his eyes. Anathema was towering over him, all red hair and wild eyes. A smudge of dirt painted her cheek.

 _"What the-?!"_ Anathema was so close that her nose was almost touching his. In his fright and haste to scramble away, Aziraphale flew across the bed and landed on the floor.

"Wow. Nice."

Aziraphale groaned. " _What_ the _hell_ , Ana?" He clambered to his feet, all knees and elbows. Aziraphale often found himself thinking he had too many limbs to make use of. How were you meant to operate them all?

Anathema stood on the other side of his bed, hands on her hips, an eyebrow raised appraisingly. She decided to skip over the sight of her friend in _musical note_ boxers.

 _"Finally,_ gosh. You were _out._ I'm baaack!" she spread her arms wide, her entire face grinning. "I wanted to say hello; we got back earlier than I thought we would."

"So you decided to scare the shit out of me?"

Anathema laughed. _"Naughty."_ she shook her finger at him, "I thought you were allergic to cursing."

Aziraphale scowled, crawling over his bed. "Not when it applies to you." He glanced at his alarm clock: **6.00 AM** glared at him smugly. "Oh for crying out loud, Ana! Six o'-bloody-clock. Wake me up when you've died a painful and bloody death."

He squirmed back under his blankets and pulled the sheets over his head. They were promptly snatched back and whipped away from him.

"Ugh An-" he started furiously.

" _No_ , there's no time for that. C'mon, get up. We're going to get breakfast. To celebrate my return. It's a good thing Newt's not here, he'd only ruin it."

Anathema grabbed Aziraphale's pale arms, hauled him up and shoved him to his wardrobe. "Get dressed and we're out in five minutes." Then she darted out the door in a whirl of green and red hair.

Aziraphale seethed sleepily as he found clothes and dressed in them clumsily.

"Hop to it!" Anathema called from the living room.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and spit toothpaste into the sink, running his mouth under the tap to wash out the minty suds. He emerged in the living room to find her hanging upside down from the sofa. Her ginger curls sweeping the floor, her legs swinging in midair. Aziraphale blinked, and then sat next to her, shoved his feet into his converse.

"You better not be this grumpy all day." Anathema said sulkily. Aziraphale could not see her face from where she was floating over the chair cushion, so he looked at the nearest visible thing to her mouth.

"You woke me up, now you have to deal with it." he said to her chin. "But you can start dealing by buying me a coffee."

"You should be buying _me_ one. I'm the weary traveler."

"You spent four hours sat on a bus, that's hardly wearisome."

"A bus crammed with gross, sweaty Geography students, most of whom emit their own powerful odour. That's wearing, I tell you."

"But you weren't _traveling_ exhausting lengths-"

"-the bus was."

"But not _you_. You exerted no effort whatsoever."

"But I was a passenger _on_ the bus. That counts. Have _you_ ever tried sitting for four hours having a good time and talking to people you like? No. You haven't. It's horrible. It's a miracle I was able to make it out alive. There was one bleak hour when we decided to stop to use the bathroom and buy sweets, but being me, I managed to get through it." she lifted her head to look at him, "So let's not waste time talking about which one of us had it worse."

"I-"

" _You_ were woken up by _me_. Have you met me? I'm a delight. What could you possibly want more for the first sight of the morning? Now stop jabbering and let's go buy me coffee and pancakes."

They walked to a cafe they often frequented. It was usually where they held flat meetings and interventions for Newt. Aziraphale bought the coffee and a pastry for Anathema, and Anathema whined about the walk from their table to the counter. They wasted an hour talking about Anna's trip, literature class, the viscosity of the coffee and traded latest theories on where Newt had spent the last week. Another hour was wasted by Aziraphale filling Anathema in on what she had missed in her friend circle whilst she had been away. A lot of it was hissed at her through gritted teeth.

"Why are you even friends with those idiots?" he demanded.

She shrugged. "Amusement. But also for personal grounding. I'm too productive if left to my own devices, they're there to hold me back. If I wasn't made to listen to their mind-numbingly painful drivel every day, I'd be running the world by now."

"I better not be included on that list."

"What list?"

"The 'holding you back' one."

"Oh. That one."

"Am I?"

"Uhh...(yes)"

"You're dead to me."

"But not like that! You spout no drivel, honest. It's your..." she struggled, "..Dazzling albino good looks. God, I can barely focus on my croissant."

"Damn right."

After they finished up, they whipped back home to grab their college stuff (it took Aziraphale considerably longer as he had to stuff five heavy-bound books into his rucksack) and headed to campus.

Anathema needed a literary textbook that she'd left in her locker before she'd departed on her _weary travels_ , and so they headed to their common room. The corridor outside their year's common room was lined wall to wall with brightly coloured lockers, available to any student who heckled the use of them. Anathema breezed down the hallway, managing to find a delicate path between the chattering students milling about. Aziraphale was too busy thinking about his required reading list for English to pay any attention to his surroundings. He trailed behind her, scuffing his shoes and bumping into people. Anathema stopped suddenly and Aziraphale, whose head had been buried in his fourteen page essay, smacked into the back of her.

"What the-"

"Well, well, well..." Anathema folded her arms across her chest and tapped a boot rhythmically to the floor. Leaning his tall frame against Ana's locker, was Newt. His skateboard was tucked under his arm and, unfortunately for the population surrounding him, he looked alive with mischief.

"The wanderer returns." said Ana, making a beeline for her locker. Newt spotted her and grinned a big grin.

"Wotcher." he winked.

"Shut up."

Newt had new blue in his hair, wearing his usual skater jeans and battered sneakers but a new lime green tee loudly enveloped his torso. It had purposeful claw marks tearing slits in the fabric. Aziraphale inwardly winced...Newt's fashion sense gave him nightmares. He wore more jewelry than most of the girls in their year combined.

"Hey Zira, how's it?" he twinkled, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"Hey...What're you so excited about?" he asked suspiciously, peering at him.

Newt smiled even wider. "I think I may have just committed the crime of the century. But it was worth it. Or it's _gonna_ be."

Anathema shoved him out of the way to get at her books. It was then that Aziraphale noticed his hands; they were slick with black ink. At first he had thought Newt was just wearing black gloves but the substance was splattered all the way up his forearms.

"Is that ink?" he asked. Anathema slapped a packet of something into Newt's chest. His hand whipped up to grab it and he slipped it smoothly into a pocket.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to ask again but heard a familiar voice. With dread bubbling in his stomach, he raised his pale head to see Crowley rounding the corner. He appeared (without his shades for once) talking animatedly to one of his more menacing friends, Hastur. Lean and dark, Aziraphale had never seen him look anything other than sullen. He was always lurking about on campus grounds. He never seemed to actually _do_ anything.

Aziraphale groaned inwardly. And then, for good measure, groaned outwardly. And loudly, so he knew the twat would hear. Sure enough, Crowley's ears pricked and his head swung around to zoom in on Aziraphale. A wicked grin immediately washed over him, but then his gaze darted over to Newt. His golden eyes gleamed with perversity.

 _"Pulsifier!"_ he shouted, "You walkin' my way again?"

Newt turned to him and beamed. His usual response to a fellow purveyor of devilry. Oh the irony. Crowley seemed to notice that Newt was up to something, or had _just been_ up to something, as he froze like he'd been jolted with sudden electricity. He left Hastur in the dust and sped up to meet them.

"What've you done?" he demanded. Eagerness buzzing through his body. Newt only smirked. _"What'veyoudonewhat'veyoudonewhat'veyoudone-"_ Crowley spotted the ink that licked up Newt's arms. A lightbulb seemed to flicker.

Their faces cracked into evil, identical grins. Anathema and Aziraphale traded a glance of apprehensive confusion.

"I want in."

"Figures..." Aziraphale muttered.

"I saved you a seat, AJ, my man." They cackled and orchestrated a bro-fist-bump. Anathema decided to voice her extreme displeasure.

 _"Newt."_ she said in a voice that usually had him running for cover. He seemed to falter for a second but then the smile flashed up again. Like a warning sign.

"Don't worry Ana, it's nothing to do with you. Or any of your Professors..."

Anathema seemed to crackle with electricity.

 _"What-"_

"Hey!" Crowley spoke suddenly, pointing at her, "It's you! Mad bike lady!"

"What?" Aziraphale asked.

"She tried to kill me! This morning, she came in flying out of nowhere at like 5 AM, who does that? You hit my car. It was an assasination attempt-"

Anathema gasped, realisation dawning on her oval face.

"- _You_ hit _me_ I think you'll find. Since when does a _bike_ do any damage to a freaking car? It _was_ you, you bloody toerag. I thought you looked bloody familiar," she glanced to Newt, "And perfect that you hang around with _him_ -" she jabbed a finger at Newt.

" _I_ wasn't moving! You were speeding and crashed into my bonnet. You're lucky I don't sue-"

"-You almost _murdered_ Phaeton." she growled.

"Oh dear god..." Newt muttered, trying to back away and blend into the lockers.

Crowley laughed, thoroughly enjoying himself. "Who the hell is Phaeton?"

"It's her bicycle." Aziraphale said. Crowley raised an eyebrow at him. And he looked from him to the fuming Anathema, and then back again.

"Ahhh so _this_ is your other roommate? The mumbojumbo one."

 _"Anathema."_ Anathema said icily.

"Gesundheit."

"This is Ana. Ana, Crowley." Newt said, swinging an arm around Anathema's shoulders and inclining his head to each of them in turn. "Ana is _the shit_. _Play nice_. _"_ he added in an undertone to Anathema's ear, grinning lazily. Anathema fixed him with a glare that probably ruptured a few of his erythrocytes.

"Bugger off." she told him, shaking free and grabbing onto Aziraphale. She hung onto his shoulder with a grip like a bear. "Go get expelled, or killed or whatever it is you do for kicks."

Newt laughed and clicked his tongue at them. He punched Crowley's shoulder, and Crowley grinned, winked at Aziraphale. "Nice to meet you, Annie. Lead the fucking way already, Pulsifier." he said and they took off; Newt skateboarding down the corridor, Crowley jogging along beside him, deliberately putting his foot in front of the wheels so that Newt stumbled.

"He better give me back the book he owes me or I'm burning his room." Aziraphale said, readjusting his rucksack. Anathema sighed. Now sounding weary.

"I'll help you."

"What did Newt want in the first place, anyway? What'd you give him?"

Anathema gave a snort of derision that sounded exasperated. Her hair was becoming more static-y by the second. "He wanted more of my rose petal cigarettes because he's an idiot and he likes the taste of them. My mum gave them to me after she found Newt's cigarettes that he'd planted in my bag when I went home. Before my trip. (She's now convinced I'm a druggie by the way) but anyway, he tried one and now he's a bit addicted."

"Oh, so he didn't come to say hi or anything then, after two weeks."

"Nah, too mainstream for Newt. _Pillock."_ she breathed acidly. "How did that psycho know I was your roommate?" she shot suddenly like a firing gun. "He wasn't in our house, was he? _Tell me he wasn't in our house."_

Aziraphale tried. "He wasn't in our house." It sounded like a question.

Anathema started through gritted teeth. "Aziraphale.."

"All riiiight. But only for like an hour or something. I have to work with him on a music project." he scowled, adding many things in his head to that sentence that corroborated along the line of _he's also a sadistic demon who's trying to corrupt my angelical soul._ Oh yeah, I forgot to say _I'MAFREAKINGANGEL-_

"That's all." he feigned innocence.

"Good. 'Cos he's a dick. You should see the dents his stupid car put in Phaeton...It's going to take some serious work."

"He is." Aziraphale agreed bitterly as they made their way down the hall, heading to the first class of the day.

"And you have to bend your creative genius to his musical will? That's pitiful, Zira."

"Yeah.." he agreed again, feeling a funny jolt in his stomach. "Pity."

* * *

 _ **(a couple of things - I know Anathema's hair is black in the book, but I always imagined her with red hair Idky so that happened. I kinda changed her and Newton's character, I know but it's just to fit the story. They're crazy teens, what can I say? Thanks for reading this far, I really appreciate it).  
**_ _ **-.- I need to get more writing practice.  
**_

 _ **Thanks for reading! Please review if you liked! ^O^/**_


	5. Wash Away My Colours

_**It's been so loooong, I know! So to make up for it, an extra long chapter? I started writing it ages ago, and then finished it up more recently so it may read a bit odd? If people want me to continue, do let me know otherwise I may discontinue this. ;_;**_ _ **But I hope you enjoy!**_

* * *

 _Things are shaping up to be pretty odd,  
_ _Little deaths in musical beds,  
_ _So it seems I'm someone I've never met_

* * *

When it first started happening Aziraphale didn't even notice. Too absorbed in his books, his schoolwork, too intent on his furious ongoing endeavor to ignore Newt when he was at home - the reason being because he was highly annoying, and when Ana was home at the same time they _never._ _shut. up._ Constantly bickering, arguing, and sometimes _cooking._ Which was probably the worst outcome of them all. The first time he noticed that something was a bit off was when he sat pouring over Tchaikovsky at the living room table. He reached out a ghostly hand to fumble for his coffee cup, took a sip, and near spat it back out again. It had gone cold. He'd regretfully swallowed the bitter liquid, tasting like how he'd imagine frozen swamp water would taste, and dropped the mug back on the scratched wooden table. With a little bit of misery lining his face. Time passed and he forgot all about it. Turning a page, he reached for his drink again, only remembering when the moisture touched his lips and nearly jumped out of his skin - the coffee was boiling hot, almost scalding his lips. Curls of steam rose from the rim of the mug, marking mystical patterns in the air; Aziraphale watched them swirl and dissipate into the cooler environment as the sun shone through the window, exposing sinuous forms of dust mites in the sunbeams. He regarded this incident as a bit strange; one moment cold, the other boiling hot? But he shrugged it off, the familiar pull of his music sheets stronger than the lull of caffeine.

But the next day something else happened. Aziraphale hadn't packed his battered copy of A Midsummer's Night's Dream in his schoolbag. He opened up his bursting bag as the lesson began, but found nothing. It wasn't in there; he'd forgotten to pack it this morning. But that lesson they were meant to be writing an open-book essay, as a mock for their exams, and you can't write an open-book essay if you don't have the book open in front of you to plan it. Though Aziraphale had a brilliant memory, he didn't trust himself to write an exam without the play in front of him. He peered into the depths of his rucksack once more, in desperation, and then resignedly straightened to put his hand up and implore his Professor for help but-

There it was. Sat rather smugly on his desk. The very same battered (having been read so many times), golden-paged, well-worn second edition of _A Midsummer's Night's Dream_. Aziraphale had turned to Anathema, demanding to know if she'd taken it and saying that _yes, this was a very funny joke -_ but Ana had sworn innocence. And Aziraphale knew Ana's innocent face. This was it. Her feigning innocence face was a lot more smug. And evil. Well to be honest, she couldn't really _feign_ innocence, or surprise - there was just guilt. Aziraphale turned to the first page of the book, and there were his initials, scrawled in his own handwriting. It was his book. But how could it be here? He had remembered where he'd left it, at home - It had been on his nightstand. So _how_...?

And it was then, right before his mock English Literature exam, that Aziraphale strung together all the odd incidents that had seemed to be happening to him over the last week and a half. Items suddenly materializing and disappearing when he wanted them to. Those rude people a few days back on the train refusing to admit that they'd spat gum in his hair and when he'd told them to _tell the truth or go fuck yourselves_ (swearing for the first time in three weeks, damn it) they had spoken to him like they couldn't lie; telling him truths he expressly didn't even want to know. Then there were the crazy dreams he'd dismissed because of too much coffee. But most importantly, the overwhelming discomfort he'd felt recently at just being within his own skin. It was like a constant itch that he couldn't scratch, like his skin was too tight - he just wanted to grab some of his epidermis and stretch it up over his head, wiggle his bones around in the free air to dislodge whatever it was that was bothering him, and then snap the ivory webbing encompassing his lean frame back into place. Would that be so hard to do? It was too much unusual to be happening in a normal person's life. But then, Aziraphale was not normal. And that meant that there was probably a reason for these unusual things to be becoming much more _usual_ in his life than he would like. It had something to do with what he was. And this dawning epiphany slammed such a terror down on him that he yelped out loud, digging his nails into the palms of his hands. Knowing that there was no way in hel-heave- _whatever_ that he could concentrate on an essay now, he quickly complained of feeling sick (ignoring the questioning, and slightly suspicious, gaze of Anathema beside him) and vanished from the classroom before many of the students could blink. He breathed heavily outside the room, even resting his hands on his knees because he thought he really might throw up. He tried so very, very hard not to think about how easily his teacher had said that he could leave (just because he desired to) and that how, even though he hadn't touched a single one of his books, all of his belongings that had littered his desk were in his rucksack. _He hadn't touched any of them_ \- he hadn't even lifted his rucksack onto his back but there it was, hanging between his shoulder blades, the familiar weight pulling on the straps over his arms.

Aziraphale tried to breathe long and even, but he could only keep pulling in short gasps of air, breathing out more shaky air than he was pulling in. Don't panic. Maybe he could fix it, maybe if he just wanted to stop feeling sick, to stop feeling scared and nervous, then the feeling would just-

Aziraphale straightened up, calm. The churning in his stomach gone, the knot that had twisted in his chest eased. He bit his lips. But the fact that he could do this-

It was enough to strike a spark of fear in the pit of his abdomen again. He decided to take action before it could spread into a fully fledged flame. Before it had a chance to eat him all up. He knew where he was going before he even started moving.

Crowley. As much as he didn't want to go crawling to the demon for help, he was, as previously stated, a demon. The only other-worldly that Aziraphale knew existed. And perhaps he could help - perhaps Crowley knew what was happening to him, he must do. Crowley was far more of a demon that Aziraphale was an angel, both physically and, y'know, spiritually. He would know. He could help him. And if he didn't... Maybe Aziraphale would make him. He wondered if it would work on Crowley, on a demon. Suddenly the thought came to him that maybe Crowley could do the same things Aziraphale could - and if so, he could have been manipulating Aziraphale whenever he felt like it! Oh, god, Aziraphale's stomach twinged again. This was getting to be more than he could handle. He had no idea where Crowley was, but after a quick scope of the grounds he immediately decided that he wasn't in school. He wasn't in any class. He had no idea why that was, he just knew that he wasn't here.

 _I don't know exactly how it is for your kind. But you'll feel drawn to certain people; other angels, other demons._

Crowley had to be at home, wherever home was for him. But Aziraphale had no clue where he lived - maybe he wasn't there either, maybe he was out wreaking havoc. But something told him that wasn't true. Crowley was at home. With a somewhat appropriate amount of horror, he knew it like a fact - he felt it, absolutely certain in his knowledge. And Aziraphale needed to speak to him _now._ He darted up to the bike park and unclipped his bicycle, swinging a leg over, he thought carefully. I want to... I _need_ to find Crowley. And as if he were a small red blip on an oceanographer's chart, Aziraphale suddenly knew where to find him. He had a pinpoint of his exact location and -his legs quivered thankfully- it wasn't too far away.

* * *

In fact it was hardly far away at all. Crowley lived in the city, just a few blocks down from campus, in the modern part of the area. Which was typical. Trust him to go for the most sophisticated of everything. And this was also true for the building he lived in. An enormous tower of apartments - some even were furnished with trees on their balconies. Not massive oaks or anything, but still, _trees_ for crying out loud. Panting with the speed at which he'd peddled here, Aziraphale clambered off his bike and dragged it up the pavement. Miraculously there was a bike rack outside the building. Aziraphale had thought there wouldn't be-

Oh. There wasn't. Until now. Aziraphale swore loudly and ignored the looks from passersby. He locked his bike up, and swept the snowy hair back from his face. He mopped his brow with his sleeve from where he'd perspired and straightened himself up. Hoisting his rucksack further up his back, he went through the doors. He didn't stop to notice that you actually had to buzz your way in, but the doors parted as easily as butter for Aziraphale. He didn't look for which number Crowley lived at, he just trusted that he'd know when he saw it. Nerves prickled under his skin. He felt truly panicked now, possibly more than he had done before. Why? He was closer to help now. God, he needed to have a big freak out and then a nice cup of tea. Possibly with a chocolate hobnob or two. Aziraphale climbed the three sets of stairs (he ignored the elevator on principle now) before he felt he should stop. He came to blackened wooden door, identical to all the others he'd passed. Aziraphale felt like slapping himself - even without his magical angel instincts he should've known he'd know Crowley's flat just by looking. On the wooden door in front were two golden 6's, nailed in the dead center of the wood. Someone had added an additional 6 in blue highlighter. Aziraphale repressed a sigh. But then he went ahead and released it anyway, knocking thrice on the door.

There was a curious moment's silence before a noise like furniture moving. The door opened and Crowley stood there, looking surprised in black jeans and a red t-shirt.

"Angel" he said in honest astonishment, "What are y-"

" **66** 6, really?"

Crowley's grin flashed across his face like a solar flare. "Well 69 was already taken, what did you want me to do?"

Aziraphale rolled his eyes in derisive amusement. "Be more original, maybe."

"Ah, your expectations of me are too high. There's nothing wrong with living the classics."

"Nothing innovative, you mean."

Crowley pursed his lips, looking amused. "Not that it's not a pleasure discussing lifestyle ideology with you, but I am a little curious as to what brings you to my door."

Aziraphale's entire body seemed to droop, and he twisted his fingers together nervously. He bit at his lips. Crowley looked from the angel's wilted expression to his wrestling fingers. A questioning eyebrow went up. Aziraphale decided the best way to say it would be just to come out with it - say _I need your help_.

"I have a problem." Well. Close enough. Another black eyebrow went up. Concern?

Crowley spent a second examining the angel's face. White, stricken, a light sheen on sweat at his temples. Was he shaking? Crowley wrinkled his nose, this bloody angel. "Okay," he decided brightly, "Come on in." He stepped back from the door and Aziraphale crossed the threshold and into Crowley's flat. He wasn't surprised to see that he lived alone. His place was small, but sleek and stylish. A black leather sofa gleamed in the center of his living room, tiles en-covered the floor. He had plants, which surprised Aziraphale. And a flat-screen TV, a deluxe music system that Aziraphale wouldn't even know how to turn on, and even more surprisingly, he had bookshelves. Two closed doors led off from the living room at Aziraphale's right, and to the far left a few steps led up to a wide, clean kitchen. A set of see-through doors let the sun in from outside, behind the TV. A balcony. Crowley had a balcony, of course he did.

Crowley closed the door behind him and gestured at the sofa. "Sit,"

"Thanks," Aziraphale muttered, shrugging off his backpack. He sat. Crowley stood with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the TV set in front of him.

"So" he started slowly, "What's up?"

Aziraphale found his mouth and throat suddenly very dry. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea after all. He cleared his throat. "You know, most people would offer a refreshing beverage if they had someone visiting." He strangled his fingers together.

Crowley smiled widely; Aziraphale could see his white fangs. "I'm not most people, angel. And you didn't come all the way here to ask for a cup of tea. Plus I don't have tea."

Aziraphale stared. "What kind of a person doesn't have tea?"

"The demon kind,"

"And it wasn't exactly a long way, you just live down the road-"

"What I mean is" Crowley interrupted, taking a packet of gum from his pocket, "What made you leave a lesson to come see me?"

Aziraphale glared at him suspiciously. "How did you know I had a lesson?"

Crowley popped a piece of gum onto his tongue. "I know your timetable," he chewed.

"What-"

"Aziraphale let's put aside my creepy fascination with you and focus on what exactly brought you here, seeking my help." Crowley grinned and threw himself down next to the angel, perched anxiously on the sofa. Aziraphale inched a little away from Crowley and turned more-so to face him. He breathed out.

"Okay," he breathed again, "I-I've been doing things without...without realising I'm doing them. But I don't _actually_ do them - they just happen."

Crowley blinked at him. "Right. Elaborate."

Aziraphale launched into an explanation about how things that he wanted would just materialize in front of him, how people were doing what he wanted and he didn't even have to ask. Crowley listened silently until Aziraphale reached the bit about feeling iffy in his own body.

"Wait - you say you feel uncomfortable in your own skin. In what way?"

"It's like everything itches, and aches. I feel like a just want to rip my own skin off." Aziraphale ran a hand over his weary eyes. "And _stretch."_

He looked up to see Crowley staring at him as if calculating something. "What?" he blurted out.

Crowley hesitated, clearly thinking rather deeply about something. _"What?"_ Aziraphale repeated angrily.

"How old are you?" he asked seriously.

Aziraphale frowned at him, nonplussed. "Eighteen. But what does that have to do with anything?"

"Hmm," Crowley bit his lip ring thoughtfully. Aziraphale attempted not to look, but failed and looked all the more. "Well," he said, suddenly animated, "the bit about you conjuring things out of thin air, that's easy. That's your powers. You're developing them at the right sort of time, if a little faster than most newbies. You'll slowly learn to control it as you go on, but it's nothing to be afraid of."

Aziraphale sank deeper into the cushions. He groaned. " My _powers."_ he said sourly, and Crowley laughed.

"There's no need to worry about it. You can't put it off, it's happening. You're going to have to learn to accept it." he said, straightening up. "Just like me." he smiled deviously.

"Oh shut up."

"But these pains you're having... You had any kind of weird dreams along with it?"

"Yes!" Aziraphale looked at him. "How did you know?"

Crowley nodded, and looked as if he were trying to bite back a smile. "Stand up," he said, getting to his own feet.

"What? Why?"

"Just stand up," And he seized Aziraphale by the wrist and hauled him upright.

"Wh-"

"-Turn around," Crowley's fingers fell on the angel's shoulders and pivoted him around.

"Why're you-" Aziraphale started, fully prepared to be outraged if this was some kind of perverted notion, but Crowley shushed him. Aziraphale felt warm hands splay against his back and couldn't hide the shiver that ran through him; goosebumps erupted all over his skin. Crowley gently pressed his fingertips behind the indent of Aziraphale's shoulder blades, moving slowly down, down, until - _ha! Gotcha,_ Crowley thought. He felt the little bump in Aziraphale's skin through his shirt, like a small mound of bone. His fingers moved slightly left, over the curved shell of the angel's spine to the - there. Found them both. Just behind his shoulder blades, down to maybe his fourth or fifth vertebrae. Crowley tapped his fingers against the curving bumps. They were only sure to get bigger. A small smile of pleasure tugged at the corners of his mouth; this was undeniable, further evidence that the angel was exactly that. He was forever a part of Crowley's world now. No turning back.

"What are you doing?" Aziraphale asked, sighing, though his voice was a little husky. He didn't notice that he'd closed his eyes the instant Crowley had touched his back, but now they were open and worried.

"You're getting your wings." Crowley announced.

Aziraphale yelped, _"What?"_ spinning to face him, his own hands struggling frantically to reach the spot Crowley had been pressing against. Crowley laughed softly and shook his head. "You can't reach them - they grow so you can't worry them with your hands. Here, look." He took Aziraphale by the wrist again, his thumb almost scraping into the palm of Aziraphale's hand. He pulled him over to a floor-length mirror, propped against the wall, and span him around again. His back to the mirror, Aziraphale didn't register that Crowley was pulling his shirt up over his silvery-blonde head as if this was something they did everyday.

 _"Hey!_ " Aziraphale snapped, a blush already crawling across his face. "What are you _doi-?!"_

"Oh, calm down angel - I'm just showing you where your wings are growing. You'll just about be able to see them, I'll show you."

Aziraphale glowered but aided Crowley in lifting his shirt up, he hauled it over his head and then glanced, craning his neck, behind him to the mirror. He saw his own pale back, complete with freckles and the odd brown mole. He saw his shoulder blades and narrow hips, his skin the colour of a glass of milk, but that was about it. No wings. No feathers. Crowley stood directly beside him, his body facing the mirror. Their shoulders were touching; the soft thread of cotton against Aziraphale's bare skin.

"You won't be able to feel them yet - which is probably a good thing for you, 'cos knowing you you'll freak."

Aziraphale opened his mouth to retort angrily, but Crowley touched the skin behind his shoulder blades with slender fingers; his touch was so tender that his fingertips felt hollow. "They're just here," he said lightly. Aziraphale glanced at Crowley's face in the mirror, met his slitted eyes, and then looked to where he was touching him. He couldn't see anything.

"Where?"

"Look they're just small, curved bits of bone at the moment. You've barely got a wing joint. But look, if I rub my fingers over.." And then Aziraphale did see; Crowley's fingertips rolled of a small nub of bone - and he felt it. A hollow mound of bone, carpeted by his skin. Then Crowley moved to the left side of his back, and his fingers located the other. It was like someone had cut his back open, inserted in two pieces of sea-smoothed driftwood behind his shoulderblades, and then sewn him back up. Aziraphale's mouth fell open, his face drained of colour.

"Oh, my god," he muttered, a physical embodiment of awe and horror.

"As they grow, so will your powers and you'll be able to shapeshift."

 _"What!"_

Crowley couldn't help but laugh at the angel. "Not like that. All though for me, _yes_ , exactly like that." he grinned, "It just means you'll be able to hide your wings in this form-"

"-Form?"

"Your body. Eventually you'll be able to conceal your wings - they'll be there, but you won't be able to see or feel them. Like mine," he paused suddenly, chewing on his lip, "I probably shouldn't be telling you this." But then he shrugged.

Aziraphale ignored the last bit, " _Like yours?_ What do you mean?"

"You're not the only one with wings, angel." Crowley said. "Don't you remember I told you? I'm offended you don't think our conversations are that scintillating."

And Aziraphale did remember. _Demons get the deal too._ He pulled his shirt back over his head, yanking it down over his baby wings. "You have wings too. Are yours fully grown?" Aziraphale looked back to him. Crowley shook his head.

"No, not fully. But mine actually look like wings-"

"-with _actual feathers?"_

Crowley grinned. "Yes," he mused, "D'you wanna see?" And he raised his arms to the back of his neck, presumably intending to pull his t-shirt off.

"No!" Aziraphale yelped quickly, a hand outstretched to stop Crowley from removing any item of clothing. Crowley froze with his hands at his neck. He seemed to understand Aziraphale's train of thought and was intent on dropping a hang glider in front of it, if not a fully fledged squadron of jets.

"I can't show you with my top on," he smiled innocently, "And I just got this, I'm not reducing a perfectly good shirt to shreds."

"Forget it, I don't want to see. It'll just freak me out even more."

"No it won't, angel. If anything it should reassure you - or prepare you." Crowley raised his eyebrows in apparent honesty, "This is the only chance you're gonna get to see. I won't offer again. And if your wings end up growing up all mutated or twisted..."

Aziraphale clamped his lips together, trying not to look as horrorstruck as he felt. He knew Crowley was just playing with him but still. He had aerated bits of bone growing out of his back with a swift speed that he could do nothing to stop. What _if_ something went wrong? His insides squirmed together; he was sure his gut now resembled twisty spaghetti. In all honesty Aziraphale wanted someone who could reassure him, who would tell him _honestly_ everything that was going to happen to him and how it was going to shape his life, all this angel business. Didn't heaven provide a mentor service or something? Maybe if he prayed he'd get through to an angel receptionist or something... make an appointment. Aziraphale was eighteen, and he was an independent adult. He had been probably since he was fourteen. The sensible one, mature and sensitive and reliable. A hard worker. Confident, and assured. But now, after everything. It was all hitting him at once. He was just a kid. What did he know? He was just a human kid. And now he was changing. Changing into something else, something ethereal and dangerous. Something that wasn't him, something that he didn't understand. His arms felt weary and his legs weak; his knees felt like bags of water, weighted down to the spot where his battered, old green converse were glued to the floor. And the question that plagued him constantly since Crowley had first found him, had first confronted him, buzzed around his skull relentlessly. Worst than the plague of locusts or whatever the hell it was in Ancient Egyptian history, was the burning, restlessness anger. The outrage of _why him. Why me? Why is this happening to me?_ What did I ever do to you up there to deserve _this_? And more than anything, at this moment, faced with further proof of that his life was now forever changed, he realised he wanted comfort. He wanted a pair of warm, motherly arms to scoop him up in a big bear hug. He wanted maternal fingers to stroke through his hair and tell him softly that everything was going to be all right.

He glanced to meet Crowley's questioning gaze. Somehow he didn't exactly fit the bill. Sighing, he rubbed his fingers into his eyes and shook his head decisively. Might as well get everything over with so he can peddle home and die in bed. Once he got underneath his covers, he would vow never again to leave them. Thinking longingly of home, Aziraphale said, "Fine. Let's see then,"

"Well don't sound too enthusiastic, then." Crowley tilted his head towards him, "Angel," and he smiled kindly (weird), "They're just wings. It's cool. Having them is not a death sentence; they're there to help you, not burden you."

"Well, they are a burden. And I don't even have them yet." Aziraphale scoffed, _just wings._ Yeah, and you're _just_ a sadistic, perverted spawn of the underworld bound in human form that has a tendency to terrorize humans and eat wasabi with scary confidence. Next it'll be, _oh don't worry, they're_ just _flesh eating larvae that'll eat away at your soul and murder your housemates if you breathe near them._

Crowley sighed heavily, sounding either exasperated or impatient. He ripped his shirt off over his head before Aziraphale could protest. Though he did try once it was too late.

" _Hey_ -!" Aziraphale stepped forward reflexively to stop him as Crowley's red bundle fell to the floor. And although it was only a mere millisecond before the sickening cracking noise started, Aziraphale's brain still found the time to absorb the sight before his widening eyes in all its glory, and store it away safely in his long-term memory where it would never let it go. In this millisecond, Aziraphale did only what he could, which was stare, and stare openly and fiercely at the nakedness of Crowley's upper body. His darker skin did nothing out of the usual, the curving muscle of his stomach was no more impressive than any other that Aziraphale had seen, his toned shoulders, hollowed clavicle, the gentle flex of his arms, the lean but invitingly soft apparel that many teens held so firmly in their youth was no different to anyone else's. Aziraphale could have been looking at any one of his fellow classmates topless. Except from the fact that he _wasn't_. Except the fact that this was _Crowley._ Everything was entirely normal and the same, and sane and all that, except that this was Crowley. _Crowley_ with his shirt off. And his copper skin, and the smaller, leaner frame than Aziraphale had expected. Crowley's full muscles and hollowed clavicle. Crowley's firm shoulders and - what he imagined would be - the soft skin of his neck. This was Crowley. And that made all the difference. And he annoyingly, embarrassingly finally understood why so many girls in his classes fawned over him. An entirely new, and different set of nerves coursed through Aziraphale's body, shivering up into his chest. And just as the stunned awe of silence began to creep into his head, the cracking shattered it.

Aziraphale jerked back from the sudden noise, a frightening sound. Crowley had done nothing but tensed his hands into fists - and perhaps blinked a little longer than usual - and whipping shadows were coursing from his back. Out of his back. Aziraphale's mouth dropped open.

"Don't look so scared. I'm not seeping evil. It's just the shapeshift." Crowley smirked. And as soon as his words died away, so did every one of Aziraphale's thoughts. Crowley had wings. Towering, huge white ornaments stretching their full wingspan behind Crowley's head, and he looked like a god. A Grecian nightmare, bestowed with awesome yet terrible power. And suddenly he was all very much the demon he repetitively claimed to be. He groaned a noise similar to that as if he were stretching. But Aziraphale supposed that he was. Crowley sighed and his wings folded, ruffling, like a tame creature, against his back. "Take a peek," he grinned, and turned around so their full ferocity slammed into Aziraphale. The effect was similar to winding him.

He gasped, slowly staggering closer. He stopped about an arm's reach away. Strangely -and completely in contrast to his previous emotional state- an incredulous smile lit up his face. Crowley's wings were beautiful. And terrible. But so undeniably _there._ The truth of it hit him hard in the face, and he gasped again. A little laughter trickling from his open mouth. Crowley cautiously unfolded his wings, not wanting to alarm the angel, and Aziraphale gasped some more. Ghostly white, and lavish, Crowley's wings almost reached to the ceiling. If this was what Crowley called not yet fully grown, Aziraphale spluttered to think of what would be. His feathers were gleaming, a few near the tips of his wing joint were speckled with a dark brown, and some had a silver sheen rippling over them; when they moved it looked as though water was cascading through them. Crowley's feathers grew larger, and longer the further away from his body. Little, tiny feathers, like infants, sprouted from the skin on Crowley's back, where his wings veered out from the bone, out from his skin.

"Can," Aziraphale rasped, his mouth dry from hanging open like an idiot. He cleared the roughness from his throat, "Can I..?" His eyes flickered to the back of Crowley's head.

"What? Touch? Yeah, go ahead."

Aziraphale settled just that little bit closer, something knotting in his airways, akin to bizarre excitement. He reached his fingers out as if to tickle the feathers, but then changed his mind and gently touched the palm of his hand to the strong joint growing out of Crowley's back. It was harder than he'd expected, more bracken-y like, and the wing quivered slightly at his touch, as if Crowley flinched. Aziraphale moved his fingers along the angular curve growing further, and further away from Crowley. As he reached the middle, the feathers turned softer, and he ran the pads of his fingertips through the downy softness, feeling the smoothness course against his skin. Crowley's feathers felt different to those of a bird's, not that Aziraphale made it a habit to fondle every pigeon he happened upon, but he knew what normal feathers felt like. And this was not it. So soft... And warm. Perhaps having wings to cocoon yourself in wouldn't be so bad.

"Can you feel that?" Aziraphale asked him, wonder lighting up his face. He was smiling in amazement, like a four year old being shown the stars for the first time. Being told the name of each one...

"Of course I can," Crowley said, his voice a mumble. Aziraphale glanced momentarily back up to his face -it was difficult to tear away from his wings- and from where he now stood, a hand lost in a feathery quilt of snow, he could see the left side of Crowley's face; could see even more the biting edge of his jaw, the shadow beneath, the angular curve of his cheekbones, the outline of his nose and his brow, the ebony meshing of his eyelashes; his eyes were closed. His head was tilted back, his face more open to the ceiling. As if he were enjoying the sensation of an angel's touch, at his wings that were grown solely from dark deeds. At this thought Aziraphale was reminded of something he'd once read...

 _We must not look at goblin men,  
_ _We must not buy their fruits:_

The smile of starlight wonder slipped from his face. He stared down at Crowley's wings, his fingers lost in a fiery white sea, and thought of, once more, the fact that Crowley was a demon. That he was very much a demon. And the entire fact that he had these beautiful wings, it was because he had done bad things. Bad things for beautiful reasons. He was a literal embodiment of temptation, and loss. He was a Demon, a terrible being. Sentenced to a life in Hell. Who knew what kind of things he had done to get this far? Who knew what he would go on to achieve? What devastation he would bring to the world? How many lives he would rotten?

 _Who knows upon what soil they fed  
_ _Their hungry, thirsty roots?_

Aziraphale's hand trailed from his wing; fell limply to his side. At the absence of his touch they folded together again, nestled against Crowley's back, and Aziraphale stepped away. Crowley stooped to pick up his t-shirt, "You better not have ruffled any of my feathers," he muttered, sniggering, straightening up back around to face him. And just like that, his wings vanished. Gone. As if they were never there. There wasn't even the noise, or the shadows from whence they came. Nothing. Had that been real? Crowley pulled his shirt back on.

"It's not such a performance to hide them. I think they do it on purpose," he explained, rolling his eyes, "it's more of a show when they pop out. All those sound effects and lighting, like a bad theater performance."

Aziraphale nodded. He no longer felt weak and weary, but he also no longer felt the light and happy wonder he'd had before. It was like someone just blew out a flame from the wick of a candle. It was still smoking, but all fire was gone. With four lines, he'd managed to dampen the entire blaze. Now he just felt sad, and a little empty.

Who was this person-this demon in front of him? Who even _was_ Crowley?

 _He's a demon,_ he answered for himself. Yes, he is. _A demon you went to when you needed help._ Because he's the only one I _could_ go to! The only one who would know what to do. _And he did know. And he helped you. Even though it's probably against the rules, demons helping angels. I mean, it has to be. But he still helped you. Perverted and creepy may be, but he still helped you out when you needed it._ I guess he did help me, I do feel better for it. Kinda.

"You can always count on me to, you know." Crowley said, grinning. Although the grin faltered once he'd realised the words actually left his mouth. They both blanched. And Aziraphale noticed that he'd said that last bit out loud. He blushed, as usual.

"..Uhh-"

"Ugh that was a bit too heartfelt, wasn't it?" Crowley said quickly with an air of disgust, physically shaking himself. Then the grin was back. "I just mean we're friends."

"Well-"

"No! _Ah_ we are!"

"We had _sushi-_ " Aziraphale tried, but-

"-Which proves it. Come on, I totally just saved you from a major freak out so you're welcome. I won't even ask for anything in return, because we're friends."

Aziraphale glared at him, revolted. "And you would _normally?_ You're a terrible human being."

"But a really good demon." Crowley winked.

Aziraphale sighed, the weariness suddenly back. "That's what I'm worried about," he muttered under his breath, forgetting, of course, that Crowley had enhanced hearing. "I need a drink of something - have you got coffee at least?"

Crowley, his hands in his pockets and an unreadable expression on his face, looked at him, devious smirk immediately back in place. "You kidding? What kind of a demon d'you think I am? Hell has all the best coffee machines."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

"You," Crowley continued, striding ahead of Aziraphale and whispering tauntingly in his ear, "get the instant stuff."

"..."

"Fuck _you_."

* * *

 ** _Please review / follow if you liked it!_**

 ** _(Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti )_**


	6. Here There Be Dragons

**_Sorry for the gap. Here's the next one! Hope you enjoy, and please review!_**

* * *

After seeing Crowley's demon wings, Aziraphale had a very strong need for some form of caffeine and (refusing to believe that a demonic individual such as Crowley did not own a single tea bag) he relocated to his kitchen, proceeding to hunt through his cupboards.

"So," Aziraphale said, putting the kettle on to boil, "can you fly then?"

"Sadly not." Crowley yawned from where he leaned against the counter. "Not yet, anyway. It's bullshit, right? _I have wings yet cannot fly. . ._ "

Aziraphale suppressed an eyeroll, instead saying with great familiarity, "'Fly without wings; Dream with open eyes; See in darkness.'"

"That's cool. Is that Shakespeare?"

Aziraphale threw Crowley a fiercely withering look.

"It's Stojanovic."

"Bless you- _fuck_."

"You know, there are other poets and playwrights besides the Bard." Aziraphale muttered, and withdrew his head somewhat glumly. "You really weren't lying. You don't own any tea. How is that even possible for someone living in England? Even if you're not quintessentially English!"

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Right. Because that's what you're upset about, the fact that you can't have a cup of tea. Not the fact that you're an eighteen year old growing wings. And I offered you coffee."

Aziraphale scowled at him. "Why are you so hung up on my age?"

Crowley bit his lip ring and smiled thinly. _"Because angel,_ neither your kind or mine grow wings until the age of _nine_ teen, not eighteen. That's why _I_ have them - and I'm twenty in three months. You shouldn't even be getting the dreams yet. You shouldn't be feeling like you need to stretch your wings - which is the scratchy pain you feel - for another year yet. And your wings are growing now."

"Oh." Aziraphale knotted a thoughtful hand in his hair. "You didn't tell me there were set ages for stuff like this."

"There usually aren't. The rate at which demons evolve is entirely dependent on the individual. It's only the wings that have a set sort of marker, and if they don't start growing by the time you reach twenty, they usually don't grow at all. But that's demons, I don't know about you angel folk - and I'm hardly your teacher on the matter. I shouldn't even be telling you this, for hell's sake."

Aziraphale was a little taken aback by the roughness of Crowley's tone. He tilted his head at him. "How do you know all this stuff anyway? And if you're sore about it, why _did_ you tell me that I'm an angel? I didn't ask you to."

"No." Crowley's voice was low, "But you did come to me asking for help."

"Which I wouldn't have done if I never knew what I was."

"No, you'd be back on campus having a panic attack and thinking that you're some kind of wizard."

"But _you_ wouldn't be having to deal with it. So. . .why? Hm?"

The kettle came to a boil, whistling, and Crowley turned to take it off the heat. "Mugs." he said, holding a hand out. Aziraphale stifled a smug laugh and handed him two white-china mugs that he'd found in a cupboard. He glanced round to eye him with molten gold. His pupils were dilated as much as Aziraphale imagined they could. "You take sugar?"

"One. And you didn't freaking answer me."

"I know." he sighed, dumping sugar into a mug, "I am a riddle wrapped up in a mystery. It's why you're so hot for me right now."

Aziraphale practically choked on his own saliva. _"E-Excuse me?"_

Crowley glanced back at him again, gleeful wickedness alive in every feature, a grin twisting up his mouth. His lip ring wobbled. "Come on," he said, laughter shaking his voice, "I solved your problems _and_ I showed you my wings. That not doing _any_ thing for you?"

"You're funny," Aziraphale snapped, trying to calm the red in his cheeks before it spread to his ears, "you didn't _solve_ my problems. You just explained what they were."

Crowley shrugged. "Before you kill the monster you have to say its name."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, "Very profound."

"And true." Crowley fixed him with an abnormally serious stare.

They were silent for a moment, and Aziraphale nodded, reflecting on just how difficult his life was going to become.

"Go sit down." Crowley nodded to him, "I'll bring the coffee." He added, his face the epitome of innocence. Unlike Anathema (whom Aziraphale knew exactly when she was lying) Crowley was often unreadable, and he wasn't sure he was even capable of being innocent.

"That's okay," he hesitated, "I'll just drink it in here. I won't intrude much longer on your hospitality."

Crowley performed a very elaborate eye roll.

"What?" Aziraphale demanded.

" _Jeez_ , angel. You need to learn to unwind. Anyone would think I was trying to drug you."

"What? I-"

"You're either entirely suspicious of me, or you have a very high opinion of yourself if you think I'm going to jump you the moment we both sit down."

 _Ladies and Gentleman, it is my great pleasure to introduce, theeeeeee Human Solar Flare! Aziraphale B. Bennett!_

"In case you're wondering - it's definitely the first one." Aziraphale scowled furiously at him despite his red ears.

Crowley smiled like a snake.

"Then you're smarter than you look."

Aziraphale snatched his cup of coffee from the evil grinning bastard (how is it that he can go from douche to mega-douche-64 in a manner of seconds?), earning himself a scorching burn as the liquid overflowed down onto his wrist. He gulped down his coffee in stony silence before his mind began to wander. He looked over to Crowley. The demon had taken out his phone and a thumb was tapping at the screen. His mouth was toying with his lip ring. The demon did that a lot. And despite suddenly knowing a lot of personal information about Crowley-

(He was a demon.

He wanted to destroy serenity.

. . See above.)

-Aziraphale realised he actually knew hardly anything about this other other-worlder standing in front of him. Well, _leaning jauntily against the cooker_ in front of him. He tried to put pieces of him together. He was nineteen -almost twenty- and he had scary eyes. And fangs. He liked music. And sport - he took Physical Educative Studies, didn't he? Aziraphale knew that he also studied Biology and Photography. And he seemed to enjoy pop culture references. What else? He had a car. A convertible.

Hmm.

Aziraphale didn't even know his name. Only Crowley. AJ Crowley.

"What _is_ your name?" He blurted out, drawing yellow eyes to him. Crowley looked amused.

"What?"

"Your full name. I only know you as Crowley, but you're AJ Crowley aren't you?"

Amusement dropped into annoyance. Crowley raised an irritable eyebrow. "It's _just_ AJ Crowley."

"Yes, but what does that stand for?"

"It stands for not your business."

Now it was Aziraphale's turn to dig into some eyebrow action.

"After _all_ of my business that you now know?"

"I didn't ask to know all of that business. You came to me for help."

"And how I do now regret it." Aziraphlae said icily.

"Angel-"

"Do you have some kind of self aversion to names? My _name_ is _Aziraphale_." He glowered at him. "Would you like it if I went on calling you _demon_ or _hell sprite_?"

Crowley paused. "Actually. Yeah. That'd be kinda hot."

Azirphale stepped forward, coffee in one hand, the other making strangling motions.

" _Fine_. Fine, alright. Bloody hell." Crowley crowed, "Never knew an angel could be so demonic."

"You know what? I don't even want to kno-"

"Aleister Jeremiel Crowley. Demon of Hell. Scourge of the Underworld. At your service." And he offered a lazy two-fingered salute.

Aziraphale started. "Aleister Jeremiel?"

"You can see why I go by AJ. And I don't, really. It's Crowley."

"But. . .But isn't-"

"-Jeremiel an angel's name? Yeah."

"Then why. . ?"

"Tell me, Aziraphale, most learned one. What _are_ demons?"

Aziraphale bristled but answered anyway. "Fallen angels."

"There ya go." Crowley's face suddenly fell into shadow. "And if you ever call me by that name in public or in private, I will make it my sole and irrevocable mission to corrupt you and make _you_ fall."

The room felt cold. A shiver ran up Aziraphale's spine.

"Sure." He murmured.

The kitchen sprang back into daylight, warmth flooding Crowley's face.

"Well, then." He brightened. "Any more questions? Hopefully _before_ the sun goes down."

Aziraphale swallowed. Perhaps it was best to leave questions about Crowley's personal life for later.

"Uh. Yeah. Can demons and angels, y'know, compel each other?"

"You mean could I make you do something without you knowing about it?"

". .Yes."

"We're not all puppets on a string, you know. And it's not a compulsion, it's an idea. It's all about ineffability. Humans are easily swayed; you just have to put the idea out there." He took a gulp of coffee. "But as for angels and demons. ." Crowley smiled slyly. "No. We can't - as far as I know. I've never tried."

Aziraphale stared at him. "You've never tried to tempt an angel?"

"Oh, Aziraphale." He looked at him not unsympathetically. "I'm tempting you right now. Every time you stand near me, I'm a temptation to you. Don't try to deny it" -he added as Aziraphale (of course) opened his mouth immediately to argue- "It's the truth. _What_ it is I'm tempting you to do though, I don't know. . .That's all you. But it's the truth, of course it is. It's the same for every demon and angel out there - or at least budding young'uns. I will forever try to convince you my way of things is better, and you will always do the same to me."

Desperately fighting his urge to wallop him one, Aziraphale asked Crowley, "But you've never actively tried. . . tried to make me do something?"

"No. I haven't. I don't know if it would even work." Crowley shrugged. "I just assumed it wouldn't work on angels and vice versa. We're both not of this world."

Aziraphale shivered. He was still having difficulty in getting around that idea.

Crowley was looking at him oddly. Almost. . thoughtfully.

"Do you want me to try?"

"What? No!"

Crowley straightened up. "Would you like to-"

"- _Ah!_ _No!_ " Aziraphale pointed a deadly finger at him. "Why don't we just keep it a mystery, hm?"

Crowley smirked, but crossed his arms in surrender. He shrugged.

"Fine. I'll try it one day."

"I can hardly contain my excitement."

Crowley grinned. "Don't you think-"

"Shut up, Crowley." Aziraphale drained his mug to the dregs. Ugh. Nobody like those. He placed his mug back on the counter and rolled his shoulders. Despite now knowing the reason for their aching, the pain didn't seem diminished in any sense.

"If I might make a suggestion," Crowley said, watching him with beady eyes, "you'll probably feel that you want to sleep on your front. Don't. Sleep on your back."

"What?"

"Your wings. It can be painful when they first start to grow. Sleep on your back. It's the most natural position for all your appendages to be in. Trust me, it'll help."

Aziraphale wasn't sure if _trust_ and _Crowley_ were two words that were meant to mingle.

"Okay." He said slowly. "Sure. Thanks."

Crowley shrugged.

"I er - I better go." Aziraphale said quietly, again trying not to blush because of what he was about to say. "Thank you. . for all-" He gestured in the air vaguely.

Crowley shook his head. "Don't thank me. Seriously, don't. Demons should not be helping angels. Even apprentices."

Aziraphale nodded. Then why are you?

"Right. Well. I appreciate it anyway. I'm sure it will. . get easier?" He asked weakly.

Crowley only grinned again.

"It's nice to know you get off on my distress." He jabbed.

"Hey, you gotta have a hobby."

Aziraphale followed Crowley out of the kitchen and slung his heavy rucksack over his shoulders. He really should do something about all this weight. . .

Bugger.

Lugging his light-as-a-feather school bag to the door, he stopped abruptly as Crowley caught his arm. But the demon only opened the door and swung him through the doorway.

"Been a pleasure." He winked as Aziraphale caught his bearings.

"Doubtful." He muttered.

Aziraphale saw Crowley rolling his eyes once more as he closed the door. "See you at school, angel-cake."

Aziraphale stood there for a full three seconds, glaring at the closed door before uttering, "Fuc-udge _you_."

Magnificent, he thought. He turned his head and made his way back downstairs.

* * *

"What time do you call this?" Anathema demanded as soon as Aziraphale stumbled in, closing the front door behind him.

Ana was scowling up a storm, wrinkling the freckles over her nose together. Aziraphale noticed that she was holding a half rolled-up tube of body bronzer (the special kind with glitter in) in one hand, and in the other a thoroughly soiled sponge before he opened his mouth to respond.

He'd thought this out.

"I had a doctor's appointment."

"That's nice, dear. But that's not what I asked."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and heaved away from the door, shrugging his jacket off and dumping his bag unceremoniously to the floor. Which drew a sharp questioning glare from Ana. Aziraphale always took great care of his books.

He sank into the armchair tucked in by their table. It was only then that he noticed the half naked body of Newt, lying slumped across the sofa. Most of his torso was now a dark chestnut brown. It caught the light and glittered.

"Are you alright?" Anathema asked at the same time Aziraphale said, "What the hell are you doing?"

Ana's face brightened. "He passed out," she gestured a semi-bronzed hand to the unconscious Newton, "and I saw an opportunity."

"Right."

"I found that book he borrowed from you as well - it's in your room."

"Right. I mean, thanks."

Anathema straightened up from towering over Newt, abandoned the bronzer to the sofa, and fired the sponge at Newt's head. He didn't stir.

"Right then," She said, sitting at the table with him, "so what's up with you?"

"What do you mean?"

Ana stared at him. She had a paintbrush tucked behind her left ear. A pencil slipping behind her right. Most of her hair was scraped back off her face, and it made her eyes look huge. Unavoidable.

Inescapable.

"Aziraphale, come on. You totally legged it out of English. You so did not have a doctor's appointment today - you would have written it on the calendar in huge block letters like you do in that gross, obsessive anal manner of yours. Plus you'd never schedule one during an English lesson. An _exam_ no less."

"It was a mock."

"Which, as you remind me every bloody time, is _still_ an exam and _still worth revising for!_ " She screeched in a false imitation of him.

Actually it was pretty spot on.

"Well, it _is_." Aziraphale glared defensively.

"So, why'd you leave?"

"I-" He sighed, hesitating. "I was feeling ill."

"But you didn't come home. Newt said - _he_ 's been home all day." Ana shot the slumbering mess on the sofa a filthy look.

Aziraphale said nothing. His stomach was squirming like a bowlful of worms. He swallowed thickly.

"Hey-" Ana wrapped her dainty hand around his. His hands were practically twice the size of hers. "What's going on with you? You've been acting weird these past few days."

He couldn't tell her. There was no way on earth Aziraphale could tell her. But he so wanted to tell her. Desperately. Aziraphale hated keeping secrets from Ana, mostly because she had a nose like a bloodhound for that sort of thing - she always found out. Always. It was like she had a built in lie-detector. And usually Aziraphale would only make it a few hours before giving in and telling her everything, saving himself foreseeable weeks of deadly annoyance.

But this time. . .

He doubted she would even believe him, let alone allow him to spill everything and confide in her. Ana would think he was mad.

"I just-"

He had no idea where he was taking this sentence.

"It better not be any more stupid worrying about schoolwork. Because I mean, seriously Zira, you'll give yourself a hernia if you carry any more books around with yo-"

"-It's not schoolwork. It's not uni, everything's fine."

Was he _really_ _doing_ this?

"I just-I-" He sighed, impossibly gesticulating for the words to come out. He looked into Anathema's pale face. She crossed the boundary line from worried into cross.

"You know we don't keep things from each other. Secrets ruin friendships, it's a lack of trust. That and stealing underwear."

"What-"

"-Don't ask."

A manic glint was playing about her eyes. Aziraphale glanced to the heavily bronzed Newt.

"Is that why-?"

"I said don't ask."

Aziraphale sniggered, cupping a hand to his mouth.

"Zira-" Ana started, but then stopped, as if catching herself.

"What?"

She exhaled in a stream of air, blowing out her cheeks. "Okay. Don't be mad, okay? But I asked Newt if he'd heard from you when I got in (seeing as you just got up and left) - concerned friend I thank you, brownie points please - and he had just gotten off the phone with" -Her expression darkened somewhat- "with Crowley."

Aziraphale went cold all over. Uh oh.

"He said that you were there. That you had just left."

Aziraphale's throat was dry; his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn't make his jaw close.

"Now I am really, really hoping that you did not blow off an English exam just to go and-and do whatever it is, with that scumbag piece of dirt, Aleister Crowley."

Aziraphale was groaning softly, squeezing his eyes shut, sick with contact embarrassment. He wanted to wring his hands together but Ana was holding his left in a grip like a vice.

"How is it that everybody knows his first name but me?" He muttered bitterly.

That bastard. What did he do - phone up Newt to brag? _When I see him again_. . . Aziraphale thought furiously.

"That is so not the point right now."

Ana squeezed his hand. She was like a bomb, preparing to go off.

"Jus-just tell me - should I be screaming right now? Beating you bloody with your own shoe?"

"Oh, Jesus, Ana! No."

"Well, than - Just tell me! Why the _fuck_ did you run out of an English lesson to go see the biggest bastard we know? _Please_ tell me you're not sleeping with him."

" _What_?!" Aziraphale felt like he was suddenly sitting on top of a raging volcano. " _No_! _Am I sleeping_ -? _No_! No, I'm not sleeping with him! God! I'm not doing anything with him-!"

"Then why the hell were you at his house?"

"I was-"

Crap.

"I was just-"

Oh, bugger crap. Crap salad sundae.

"I-I was-I don't have to share all of my business with you." Aziraphale ripped from her hands - more like claws now, really - and beelined for the kitchen. But Ana was hot on his heels.

"Ohh, yes you do! When it concerns treacherous, scheming wankers like AJ Crowley!"

" _Treacherous_?" Aziraphale scoffed. "Since when have you-"

"-And especially as it concerns the most gullible idiot in the universe, a.k.a starring you!"

Aziraphale whirled around to face her- "Gullible?! How am I gullible?" He demanded, going pink in the face.

"Oh, please, Zira. Come on, you'd let Donald Trump nick all your books if he said he was going to give them to starving children who can't read."

"What! What are you even-" But he faltered under her scorching glare. He added weakly, "He might be nice, you don't know."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous!" She snapped, fixing him with a withering look. "I'm not saying this to be mean, Zira - but you always see and _believe_ the good in people, even when it's not there!"

"Well, what's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong with that is that when someone like Crowley comes along, sexy as a fucking violin in a smoking jacket with spurs on, you melt like butter. You only hear his silver tongue and you don't see all the rotten-ness underneath!"

"What! That is-that is so offensive! And. . disturbing!"

Aziraphale shook his head frantically. How did they get here?

"Ana, look. I'm not interested in Crowley - never mind his 'silver tongue' and being blindsided by his apparent beauty. Sure, I like seeing the best in people but that's just who I am and it's not going to change." It's only going to get worse. . . "And as for where Crowley is concerned, I don't even _want_ to see any goodness in him. He's an arse. He's _annoying_ \- he's like Newt but ten times worse."

He gets under my skin.

"But I promise you - there is absolutely _nothing_ going on between him and I."

Ana stared him down: Aziraphale could see the suspicion in her eyes growing smaller. She nodded, but said resolutely- "Then why were you at his house?"

Bugger. She is really not going to let this go. A sudden thought occurred to him.

 _What if I. . . ?_

No. No, there's no way. That would be horrible - that's deception! That's tricking your best friend! _Lying_ to her!

 _Actually. . It wouldn't be lying. Technically._

No. He couldn't.

 _But. . . What could he say that she would believe?_

"Aziraphale!" Ana's expression was stony; her nostrils flaring. "Are you going to tell me or not?"

They never kept anything from each other. Anathema was his best friend. He tried the words out in his head as if testing the waters. Ana, I'm an angel.

Ana. I'm an Angel.

"I can't." He said softly.

Ana raised her eyebrows in surprise. "You. . can't tell me?"

"No. I can't tell you, and-"

"And?"

"And I won't."

The hurt in her eyes. Take it away.

Ana," his voice was low but steady, "this isn't going to bother you, is it? You're not going to lie awake, wondering and being nosy. I went to Crowley's to pick up some music work. I didn't leave the lesson early: I waited until the bell rang and I told you. I told you I had to go see Crowley, didn't I? You remember?"

Anathema's eyes had gone very round. Her mouth was gaping slightly open. Her dark eyebrows were still halfway up her forehead.

"I. . remember. You told me. You had work to get. I didn't want to go." She grinned sheepishly.

"Yeah, that's right, you didn't. You don't like Crowley, so I went alone. I got my work and then cycled back - I was late home because I stopped to read and lost track of time."

"You're always doing that, you idiot."

"Yep." Aziraphale tried to smile. "I am. You don't remember what we were talking about. I don't either. Do you?"

"Haven't a pickle."

"Something about Newt stealing your underwear?"

" _Don't_! Under pain of death. . ." Ana whispered, going full-on destroyer mode. "Dark times. Let's not go there."

And, as if on cue, there came a strangled yelling from the living room.

"Looks like he's up." Aziraphale gave a fake laugh.

"Speak of the devil. ."

"And he shall appear." Aziraphale muttered, wondering just which of them it was that was going to descend into hell.

Newt's bemused voice thundered through the apartment.

"WHY AM I BLACK?!"

Ana ran into the room, cackling loudly. "Don't be so. . racist. . Newton." She gasped between breaths.

"Ana!"

Ana started wheezing.

"Aziraphale, get in here!"

"What the actual fuck?!"

Aziraphale followed the calls of his friends, feeling wretched.

* * *

 ** _Weird ending, I know. Shall be continuing! Huzzah~~_**


	7. Basket Case

**A short chapter, I know - but I just wanted to get something out as I've been so busy of late! Hope you like! :**

* * *

"Look, angel. I'm a little busy right now."

Crowley was at the basketball courts, just off campus, emblazoned in his team's uniform gold and white, and damn did he make a vest top and shorts look good. He was juggling keeping their game going with a panicking and irritable Aziraphale. Which seemed to be his most constant state of being recently. Which was both fascinating and annoying.

He leaped up, snatching the basketball from the air, and slammed it down to Newt at the far end of the court. Pulsifier caught it, but continued yelling obscenities for Crowley to get his butt back in the game.

"Time to nut up or shut up, bitch!" Newt howled, whooping as he dunked the ball rather gloriously through the net.

The sun blazing down on them all was prickling Crowley's skin. Newt was sweating furiously, his face flushed, and the sunlight catching the blues and reds in his hair, setting them on fire. Newt was pretty nice-looking, Crowley thought, as the boy in question busied himself in grinning stupidly. It's a shame he has to open his mouth really. .

"Zira, come on! Bugger off! We've got a game to play - you can finish flirting later!"

Crowley grinned, glancing at the angel's fuming molten face. He narrowed his blue eyes at Newt (who was cackling away with the others) and the basketball suddenly broke free and slammed into Pulsifier's face, knocking him flat to the ground, swearing.

Aziraphale went shock-white.

"Easy there," Crowley muttered out of the corner of his mouth before cat-calling in Newt's direction.

"Urgh, this is exactly what I'm talking about! I am out of control!" The angel snapped, his golden hair skittering across his face in a sparse sudden breeze.

Crowley shivered with pleasure as the cold air fleetingly brushed over him. Speaking of pleasure. . . Aziraphale was looking particularly ravishing today, in the heat. The hot weather meant that he actually wasn't wearing a hoodie or a jumper. Instead he was wearing a navy blue t-shirt, emblazoned with the words _The Great Gatsby_ in thick yellow print. Crowley could see his bare arms, pale-white and freckly, moles dotted across his forearms - in fact one sleeve was rolled up past his shoulder and Crowley could see a birthmark blemished there. He had the strong urge to touch it.

Yes, he was creeping. Yes, in the angel's (yet another) hour of need. And yes, in the middle of his basketball game. No, he wasn't ashamed.

And what's that? Yes. He wanted to take him right there on the court.

But he didn't say this. Instead he said -

"Angel, I have a game to win and you undoubtedly have some issues to lament upon - so what d'you want from me?"

Aziraphale scowled. A flush was creeping its way up his neck. Crowley wanted rub his hand over the nape of that pale throat, slowly burning pink. Aziraphale was fighting an internal battle with himself, it seemed.

Finally he choked out quickly, "You said I could always count on you. To help." Then he added even quicker, clarifying, "With stuff like this."

(Aziraphale was aware just how all chick-flik this was sounding.)

Crowley gazed at the flustered angel. For fuck's sake. This really can't be healthy. (Neither is perving on him, he reminded himself.) He sighed heavily, and stuck his fingers in his mouth; he whistled to Newt. Pulsifier's peacock head darted up from dribbling.

"Set it up, Pulsifier!" He yelled, jerking his head to the hoops as the other players were milling about, evidently waiting for him. Newt yelled something back and both teams sped into action. The Golds were playing against the Reds.

Crowley stepped off onto the sidelines and nodded to the subs on the bench. Three of them.

"Hastur, sub for me a minute, will ya?"

Hastur shuffled onto the court with surprisingly remarkable speed. For someone who very rarely showed any signs of life.

"Alright. What's the problem - and this better be something that dear diary can't fix." He said, placing his hands on his hips. "I _hate_ letting Hastur sub. He gets way too cocky about it. ."

"Just to be clear," Aziraphale started fiercely, "it's not like I enjoy coming to you about my problems. There's just no one else I can ask or talk to-"

Not strictly true. But do go on.

"-Alright, alright. What is it?"

Crowley watched the angel swallow, the apple in his throat bobbing up, then down.

"First of all - the-the compulsions, yes? They do get better, right?"

"You mean the things you can make people do?"

Aziraphale nodded, a haze of pink spreading over his cheekbones.

"No. They won't get 'better'. I don't even know what you mean by 'better' - you'll learn to be in control of them, yes. In time. Though you seem to be doing all right on that score already." Crowley said, jerking his head and looking in Newt's direction.

Aziraphale followed his glance uneasily. He nodded again, "Right."

This clearly was not what the angel had on his mind.

"But I already told you that. So. . ?"

"Does it wear off?"

"What? Angel, it's not hypnotism. You-" Crowley fell silent at the look on Aziraphale's face. Something uncoiled hotly in Crowley's chest. "What is it, what have you done?"

Aziraphale glanced around despairingly.

"I-" He stepped closer to Crowley, lowering his voice and leaning toward him. Which Crowley had absolutely no problem with.

"I did it to Ana." He said quietly, his jaw clenching.

"What, mad bike lady? Annie?"

Aziraphale nodded. "Yeah." He whispered.

Crowley raised an eyebrow, "What did you to her?"

"Nothing! I didn't-I mean, nothing _serious,_ I just-" He exhaled fiercely. "Okay, when I got back from yours she wanted to know why I ran out of English in such a hurry. She didn't believe me when I said I was ill - and of course _your_ stupid bloody telephone call-"

"-Oh, come on, it was hardly a phone call, I just _mentioned_ it-"

"-Well because of _you_ , and _Newton_ 's inability to keep his fat mouth shut, Ana knew I had been at your house!"

Crowley waited. "And?"

"And obviously she wanted to know why I'd been there!"

"So? What did you tell her?"

Aziraphale was twisting his fingers together. Crowley had noticed this peculiar habit the angel had; whenever he was nervous or anxious, his hands would fly about with a will of their own. Twisting, writhing, knotting. As if he could wring out the problems filling his head with one good squeeze.

The angel knotted a thumb behind his knuckle. Crowley doubted he was even aware of doing it. "I-I didn't tell her anything! I couldn't think of-but _she_ thought, she thought that I-that we-we were-" Aziraphale caught his eye and immediately looked away, turning very red, and didn't finish the sentence.

The smile that ripped open Crowley's face was euphoric and wicked. He pulled his sunglasses down to the bridge of his nose so he could watch Aziraphale's expression flare sunset-red. Sexy implications washed over Crowley like waves. And he stood. _Embracing it._ Oh, this was a delight.

"She thought what?" He wheedled innocently, doing his best to catch the angel's eye, smiling his sweetest (most alluring) smile.

Aziraphale flared his nostrils and switched on the glare.

"No matter _what_ she thought, I couldn't convince her otherwise and she wouldn't let it drop. _Obviously I couldn't tell her the truth,_ " he hissed at Crowley through gritted teeth, "so I just _asked_ her to forget about it."

"Oh. Huh." Crowley shrugged. "Smart move."

Aziraphale looked like he'd just fallen down a flight of stairs.

"What-' _smart move_ '?! Crowley, she's my best friend!"

(Fuck, it sounds good when he uses my name.)

"So? It's not like you compromised her virtue and can now never look her in the face - not that she _has_ any kind of virtue to compromise. . ."

The angel made a face. Vaguely resembling a deer caught in a pair of headlights. This fucking angel.

"Look, you just tilted things your way, that's all-"

"But I shouldn't be _tilting_ things any way at all! I should be helping people-if there's any _tilting_ going on, I should be _tilting_ things in the direction of people's best interests!"

Aziraphale's hands were going manic. "Angel," Crowley said, surprising himself by catching Aziraphale's wrist, stilling the chaos of his fingers. Aziraphale's wrists were thin, and Crowley's fingers wrapped around bone with room to spare. Thin wrists and big, graceful hands.

The angel started at Crowley's touch, glancing down to where their skin met, but didn't pull himself free.

"You probably _were_ acting in Annie's best interests," Crowley said, managing to lock gaze with Aziraphale for longer then three seconds. His blue eyes kept darting away. "It's for the best if she doesn't know anything about you being what you are. And, I suppose" -he sighed wistfully- "it's also better for Annie if she doesn't think we're having it on left, right, and center - she'd spend all of her time fantasizing-wishing she were you, of course. . ."

Aziraphale glared at him, yanking his wrist free. Ooh. That look could shatter an iceberg. But at least it's better than looking like he just fucking killed a person.

"You do know she hates you, right."

"I think you've forgotten the word for 'envious'. And anyway, you really did do the best thing for her; if, like you say, she could see through you lying (which incidentally isn't that hard to do. You're a terrible liar) and you stupidly told her the truth - even if she didn't believe it - that would probably be bad news. Best that she keeps that freckled hooter of hers, out of it."

Aziraphale fell silent. He was biting his lip - Crowley could see white, even teeth poking out.

Whoops of laughter and a chorus of sudden cheering erupted behind him. Gold were winning. (Even _without_ him.) Crowley was itching to get back in. But the angel looked like he was drowning in his own mentality; Crowley could practically feel the whirlwind of thoughts zooming about his head, his confusion radiating off of him like an airborne virus.

"You did the right thing, angel."

Aziraphale looked at him.

"Please stop calling me that in public."

"So I can call you it in private?"

Instant glare.

"Look. _Aziraphale._ You did what was best for you, _and_ for her in the long run. And this way you can keep on pretending like you don't want me nine ways through Sunday." He smiled. "Think of it as your own little miracle."

"A miracle?" Aziraphale laughed bitterly. He was worrying the straps on his rucksack. "This whole thing is a nightmare." He muttered.

Crowley sighed and turned to face the game.

"It's really not that big of a deal."

"Well, to you it isn't." Aziraphale snapped at him.

And Crowley's temper flared, poking sharp edges through his meandering calm. Bitch was still a demon, bitch.

"Was that all you wanted? Someone to tell you that you're a shit angel? The worst ever? Because I think you may just be on par with this other fallen angel bloke - now what was his name? I swear it began with _L._ . . Hmm, _Luci_ -!"

He caught himself just in time. Fuck. That was a close one.

Stupid. That's twice his temper had nearly run him over. Dragged him kicking and screaming to Hell.

"I want to tell her." Aziraphale burst out.

Crowley frowned at him. "What?"

"I want to tell Ana. It isn't right, me keeping secrets from her - especially one as big as this! We never have before. She has a right to know."

"Well, fuck me. You really are the worst angel on earth."

"She does! She's my best friend!"

"And she won't be for much longer if you tell her the truth."

"Oh, tosh." Aziraphale dismissed him, scowling. "I think I know Anathema well enough to-"

"Aziraphale, listen to me." Crowley closed the distance between them, stopping himself short from putting his hands on the angel's shoulders. "I know what I'm talking about. She will not believe you - even if she sees hard evidence. Humans are like that. There's always a way to explain everything, to them. You tell anyone that you think you're a supernatural entity sent to Earth to make nice, and they'll think you are _insane_. And let's face it - they would have good cause to."

"Hey."

"You know I'm right."

Aziraphale kept his mouth shut. He was staring at a spot beyond Crowley's shoulder. The Reds just scored another basket. They could both hear Newt's cursing.

"Besides, telling Annie could even put her in danger. Fau _w_ ns, other demons, even some angels - they could mess with Annie to get to you. Or just because they think she knows too much." Crowley's lips gave a small twitch. "Demons can be sadistic little pricks."

Aziraphale nodded slowly. He met his eyes. He looked miserable.

"That you can agree with. You want to keep your friends safe, right? So be an angel."

Why was he helping this kid? He's the enemy! He should be kicking his arse, not giving him a pep talk! But Aziraphale looked like a broken toy, or a kicked puppy. And no one - neither side, heaven or hell, messed with puppies. That's fucking evil.

"Do what angels do. Just be you. And don't tell anyone."

Aziraphale was nodding slowly, his shoulders slumped, but the hopelessness clouding his brilliant eyes appeared to clear slightly. He looked at Crowley.

"Just be me?"

Crowley's eyes softened; his slitted pupils dilating into diamonds, the amber hue of his eyeballs mellowing into gentle gold. He felt a sudden rush of exasperation mixed with affection. He didn't even try to repress it. Of course Aziraphale hadn't thought of it this way.

"Just be you." His voice was low, almost undulating. "You came into creation like this, Aziraphale. You've always been an angel - you're not suddenly changing into a monster. You're just growing. Don't let your abilities morph _you._ Y _ou_ morph your _abilities_. Alright?"

Crowley could see comprehension stuttering in the angel's eyes, in his expression. He shook his head as if to clear away the cobwebs. As if there were any.

"Just be me." He repeated, almost to himself rather than directed at Crowley.

Crowley chuckled softly. "Just be you. Trust your judgments, and you won't go wrong. Now I have to save my team from losing-"

"-I think they're doing fine-"

"-so you better bugger off," Crowley continued, oblivious, and whistling to Hastur for change over, "before I get charged with indecent assault." He added in a mutter, mostly to himself. He really needed to do something about this unrelenting urge to smother Aziraphale with every inch of his body.

Hastur limped off the court, grinning like an egomaniac, and Crowley rolled his eyes and slapped him on the shoulder. Pulsifier was bounding about the court like a giant, highly drugged, and sexually-energised jackrabbit. Crowley stretched his arms up over his head, feeling his shoulder click, when something nudged against his ribs. He nearly jumped at the unexpected tender contact, in a rather sensual area of his body. Aziraphale had tapped him with the back of his hand. Crowley looked at him, letting his arms drop.

The angel still looked like he was only just realising he wasn't in Kansas anymore.

"Thanks," He muttered, " _again_. For your help. I . . appreciate it."

(Why don't you show me how much?)

Crowley nodded, and smiled. He didn't show his fangs. He jerked his head back to campus. "Go find Toto, he's probably waiting for you."

He didn't bother sticking around to see the bewildered confusion on Aziraphale's face, or to hear the conclusion that apparently the angel thought he was mad, but he saw and heard them all the same. Demon privileges, baby. Crowley dived into the mesh of gold and red clad bodies, slamming into Newt and stealing the ball off him (despite being on the same team). He dribbled it like he was made for dribbling and aimed for the net, scoring another point from half the court away.

Fuck yeah.

He flitted back to the edge of the court on an impulse, yelling after the evasive form of Aziraphale, making his way down the grassy slope from the concrete courts.

"And ang- _Aziraphale_!" He called, correcting himself at a louder decibel. "Cut yourself some slack, alright? You're still learning! You're already better than most!"

Aziraphale groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Don't you realise how that sounds?!" He yelled at him.

Crowley yelled back, grinning from ear-to-ear, "Every word!"

He stayed still long enough to give the angel a big wink and then he was a black and gold blur on the court.

* * *

 _ **A big thank you to people who have reviewed: it makes me very happy ^o^**_

 _ **Review/follow/check out my other fics if ya liked it! (Hoping to get some thicker content out soon. Shit's gonna get real.)**_


	8. Of Angels, Arrows, and Idiots

**Hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading!**

* * *

"So," The nurse said, "you just fell on it. Really. That's the story you're going with."

Crowley nodded. "Yep."

"You _fell_ on an arrow."

"Yes ma'am."

"This arrow that's protruding from your arm."

"That's the one." Crowley confirmed.

"He's very clumsy," added Newt pitifully. "He practically asked for it."

Crowley shot a silencing glare at his feather-headed (literally) companion. He was good but not _that_ good at convincing people he was telling the truth. (It was the glasses; they lended a certain air of shadiness to his character. Pun intended. You're welcome.)

They were in the Med Block, in one of the First Aid rooms, currently pleading to the sympathy (and - _hopefully_ \- sexuality) of a rather stern looking nurse whom Crowley had never met before. And his charms (such as they are) were failing miserably. Perhaps there was an age restriction on his ability, like on roller coasters at theme parks. Perhaps she was of an age where sudden heart palpitations caused death.

Or maybe it was the blood loss. Yeah, could be the blood loss.

The nurse narrowed her beady eyes at Newt. "You," she barked, her nostrils flaring to an alarming size. "Why do you have feathers in your hair? And why is there paint on your face?"

Crowley mouthed words slowly behind the nurse's back, an expression on his face solely reserved for explaining things to Newt. And three year olds.

Newt stared at Crowley before switching to idiot mode. "I was being an injun." He announced.

Crowley slapped himself.

"'You were being an _indian_ '?" The nurse repeated. She sighed, apparently losing all patience. "Pulsifier. Why on earth did you shoot this boy with an arrow?"

Crowley hissed at the word _boy._ Newt looked indignant.

"Injuns most certainly do not shoot their fellow injuns!" Newton cried.

"The term's Native American, dipshit." Crowley spat, rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses.

"That is enough. You, Mr. Pulsifier, _and you_ Mr. Crowley - explain yourselves. If you don't" she added threateningly to Newt who opened his mouth to protest, "then I'm sure five classrooms of students who witnessed you firing arrows at passing pedestrians can testify as to why you're facing nine months of probation."

"Just because you saw us shooting arrows at other people doesn't mean I shot _him_." Newt pointed at Crowley with a bow, a quiver of arrows rattling on his shoulder.

"You _did_ shoot me." Crowley muttered under his breath, holding his arm closer to his body. Blood had seeped through t-shirt so almost all of his chest was slick with it. Thankfully though, Crowley wore a lot of black.

Newt scowled at him, showing he'd heard. "You got too cocky. It was for the best - done out of the goodness in my heart."

"You did it out of spite."

"Spiteful _good_ ness, yeah-"

" _Enough_. You two are lucky I haven't phoned the police _or_ the authorities. It is only because I believe you were intentionally _missing_ " she growled at Newt, "that I am even allowing you to remain on campus grounds."

"Thank you, ma'am. We are eternally grateful." Crowley assured her quickly, throwing a dazzling smile her way. Or as dazzling as he could muster with the pain lancing through his arm. Pain was rather difficult to dilute, nothing at all like dispelling the feeling of nausea. Crowley even felt sort of sick just trying to deal with it. Then again, he did have an ARROW IN HIS SHOULDER.

Fucking hell, Newt.

The creases of frustration around the nurse's (rather lovely) green eyes relaxed a little, and she half-smiled in Crowley's direction. _Traitor,_ Newt mouthed at him furiously. Crowley did his best to look smug. Though again, rather difficult when you have a wooden pole tipped with metal pierced through your flesh.

"Now, then. Pulsifier, you are to immediately see your tutor - and your weaponry is, as of now, confiscated." And she snatched the bow from his hands, staring fiercely until Newt rather muzzily removed his quiver and handed it over, looking sullen.

"Off you go. And I shall be documenting this entire debacle in my notes so if you even _think_ about lying-" The nurse raised a stern finger and then shooed Newt away. He departed speedily, only pausing at the door to flash a grin at Crowley.

Crowley raised his good hand in farewell - only one finger was showing.

"Now. I must say I've never dealt with this kind of injury in all my years as a school nurse - leaving the arrow in of course, staunches the bleeding. That's all very well, but it can't stay in there. . . your blood is clotting, that's good. Luckily," her nostrils flared again, "your delightful friend shot you at a rather close range, so the arrow head passed right through you to the other side."

The nurse lightly fingered the arrow head with a gloved fingertip. Crowley still jumped when she touched it, craning his neck to see where it emerged out the back of his arm.

"If this," she said rather softly, "were lodged _in_ your flesh, the consequences would be severe. Arrow heads are a nasty business - much worse than bullets."

Curious, Crowley asked "How so?"

The nurse straightened up and sighed. "Bullets often pass right through you, or if not, in some cases the bullet can be left in the body, encased in bone or body tissue. Arrow heads are sharp, _very_ sharp, and continue to injure and inflame the tissue around them, which can result in infection. In addition to medicine I studied history when I was in university." She added in response to Crowley's impressed expression. "American Civil War. Fascinating stuff - though not much use for this."

"You sit tight." She said suddenly, "I'm going to make a quick phone call so we can get you off to the emergency room. I'm fairly certain they will cut off the feathered end and just pull the arrow the rest of the way through - out the _back_ of your arm. You'll bleed like mad, but they'll be able to stitch you up, I'm sure."

Crowley groaned. Emergency room. Hospital. _Gr_ -eat. For once he wished his eternal servitude to Hell would come sooner. At least then he wouldn't have to deal with bullshit like arrow wounds.

And Emergency Rooms. _Ugh_. He shuddered. And then winced as a flare of agony twisted his shoulder.

Wait-

He had an idea.

"Hey-uh, Nurse-?"

The nurse turned back in the doorway of her office, evidently muttering to herself. "Sycamore." She said sharply.

Crowley frowned. "What?"

"Nurse Sycamore. My name. What is it? Time is of the essence - you do have an arrow sticking out of your arm, you know."

Crowley smiled. "I do. I do know. But I was hoping you could do me a favour - before the dreaded emergency room. I'm not very good with doctors, you see. I could do with some courage-"

"-Whiskey?" Nurse Sycamore interrupted, a lavish bottle of Jack Daniels suddenly materializing in her hand.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. But he carried on nonetheless. "That would be _nice_ \- but I was thinking more along the lines of could I see someone before I go? They'll probably worry themselves sick when they hear what happened." He did his best to sound pitiable. "It would really help. Please, Nurse Sycamore."

Fuck, what would he be doing next - fluttering his eyelashes?

Sycamore appeared unmoved but her cheeks reddened, and she said "Very well, Crowley. Who? I'll call their teacher and have them sent down here. But it will have to be quick."

Crowley grinned. "Thank you. Aziraphale. Aziraphale Bennett. I need to see him."

"I see." Sycamore said, her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline. And she poured him a medicine cup of whiskey before vanishing into her office. "I won't be a moment." She called.

Crowley groaned. This was fucking ridiculous.

He was in pain. He _literally_ had a gaping hole in him. And bloody Sycamore had poured the drink, but left it halfway across the room. Crowley gingerly got to his feet, but a stabbing pain and swoop of nausea hit him as his arm tensed and he collapsed back onto the medi-bed, swearing.

 _I'm going to fucking_ destroy _Pulsifer_ , he thought savagely. And Crowley proceeded to fill his head with equally evil little thoughts, devising the best strategy to brutally murder Newt and make it look like an accident. Maybe he could cause an earthquake.

Perhaps that was a bit out of his reach. Or dramatic.

Then again. Newt did shoot him with a bow and arrow - using the bow and quiver that Crowley had bought (conjured) especially for him. Bloody Pulsifier.

Approaching footsteps made Crowley look up. There was a gentle rap at the closed infirmary door. Crowley had to fight back a snort, shaking his head.

Figures. Of course the angel would knock.

Nurse Sycamore emerged from her office, swiftly crossing the room and opening the door in a fluid motion. Aziraphale stood in the doorway looking thoroughly confused, one of his hands in the pocket of his jeans, his rucksack across his back. He was wearing a pair of scruffy-looking, buckled boots and one of his trouser legs was rucked up around the worn leather as if he'd shoved footwear on in a hurry.

"Hi," He said clearly, polite friendliness smiling on his fair face. "Miss Sycamore - I was told you wanted to see me. . ?"

Of course he knew the nurse's name. The angel's probably in here every other week, Crowley thought. He's always so pale.

"Not I, Aziraphale." Sycamore said gently. "Now it may be a bit of a shock. . ."

That was when Aziraphale noticed Crowley, sat on the white sheets of the medi-bed behind her. The angel looked surprised, almost startled, and - Crowley noticed with a sudden rush of pleasure - he inexplicably blushed a hot pink as their eyes met. Crowley gave a half-wave with his good arm.

Nurse Sycamore looked from Crowley to Aziraphale, her mouth opening as if she were going to give a stern explanation, but then seemed to think better of herself and patted Aziraphale on the back, pushing him further into the room.

"Well, I'll let young Crowley explain the - rather unusual situation. I'll give you two some privacy. Only a few minutes," She added to Crowley, a warning clear in her throat. "The ambulance will be here shortly."

Much to Crowley's displeasure, he noticeably flinched. And then gasped at the pain shooting up his arm.

"- _fuck_ -" He groaned, gritting his teeth and gripping the wrist of his bad arm tightly.

Nurse Sycamore frowned at Crowley and then passed the medicine cup of whiskey to Aziraphale. "Here, he can have this but no more. And _no_ physical intimacy - you are not to move that arm, Crowley, you understand me?"

Crowley drew a halo above his head with his free arm, instantly regretted it, and replaced his grip. Sycamore retreated to her office, her shoes clicking on the linoleum floor.

Aziraphale blinked.

"What the . . ruddy hell-Crowley, what-?"

"Shut up and get over here." Crowley hissed quietly. The throbbing in his shoulder was getting worse. "Oh, and gimme that." He snatched the small cup out of Aziraphale's ghostly hands and downed it in one. Aziraphale had frozen still in place. His face was a mask of horror.

"What the-?!" He whispered frantically, his eyes widening in panic. "You-you-you have- _arrow_ -in-" He pointed stupidly at Crowley's arm.

Crowley gave him a dead look. "Yes, angel. I have an arrow in my arm. Courtesy of Newt. Can we get past that bit now?"

Aziraphale's face turned furious. "You! You made me look at this! This is-what-how the hell- _why do you_ -?"

"Pulsifier, that's how! I just told you. Now, come here. We're meant to be having an intimate moment, it's the only way I could get you here."

The blush was back and Aziraphale managed to tear his gaze away from the shaft of metal (and the _very_ red blood) protruding from Crowley's upper arm to glare at him.

"What?!" He demanded, "What have you done now? And why am I here- _Crowley_ -!" Aziraphale objected as Crowley seized his wrist and drew him in closer, but he hissed in pain, holding onto Aziraphale's skin so hard his knuckles were turning white. He felt suddenly very light-headed.

"Crowley. Crowley? Whoah-okay, okay. Easy does it." Aziraphale's hand was pressing against his chest, pushing him back into a sitting position. Hmm. He had lurched forward. Was he going to throw up? Fuck. Please don't throw up. _Don'tthrowupdon'tthrowupdon'tthrowup-_

"Crowley! You still with me? Should I slap you?"

With a great effort Crowley re-focused his tinted vision back on Aziraphale. "Try it and I'll hit you back harder." He muttered, and Aziraphale's mouth twitched. _He knows I don't mean it_ , Crowley thought vaguely.

"Here," Aziraphale pried his sunglasses off from behind his ears and hooked them on the neckline of his own t-shirt. Hm, Crowley liked that. They looked good there. "So you don't lose them. Argh-!" The angel had only just noticed the damp moisture clinging to his palm; his fingers were painted red.

"What the-" He looked to Crowley and then to the arrow, then to his black t-shirt. He tentatively pressed his hand back against Crowley's chest, near his collar bone. Crowley focused on that, rather than the painful tremors now snaking up and down his arm. Aziraphale's hand came away wet.

"Oh, my god." He said quietly, his eyes very blue and wide. "Exactly how much blood have you lost? How long has that thing been in your arm?"

"Yeah," Crowley said, "That's the thing." He glanced to the nurse's office; her doorway was thankfully still vacant. "Nursey has called an ambulance for me, to take me to A&E. But that's not happening - 'swhy I needed you here. I need your help."

"Me?" Aziraphale asked, innocent bewilderment blaring from ear-to-ear. "What can I do?"

Crowley sighed. It sounded faint. Weak. He tightened his grip on Aziraphale, and then looked down in surprise. He hadn't realised he was still holding onto him. Hastily he let go, but then started reeling backwards. Aziraphale quickly grabbed his hand and pulled him strongly but gently back up. Crowley exhaled in relief. He didn't realise how exhausted he was. It seemed he'd bled out more than he had thought. He looked down at their hands - oh. Right, now they were holding hands. Aziraphale had his fingers in a firm grip, but Crowley's were cold; clammy and - shaking?

Fuck, no.

Getting a grip on himself (arrow through the shoulder or no arrow) he fixed Aziraphale in a death glare. All this blood loss made one a tad tetchy.

"You're an angel, Aziraphale. What d'you think you're here for? Fix me!"

" _What_? Fix you? Crowley-I-" He lowered his voice, bending to his height on the medi-bed. "I've never even fixed so much as a paper cut, never mind a freaking arrow through somebody's body! I've barely even practiced with my-my _gifts_!"

"Apart from beguiling all your closest friends into believing anything you tell them, right?"

Aziraphale's face shut like a book. His eyes were like ice. "It was the _one_ friend, _one_ time - and it's not like persuading someone they didn't hear something they weren't meant to! You're talking about knitting your flesh back together; muscle, tissue, even nerve endings. I mean, I presume it's not gone through any bone? Then there's the fact of what do I do with the _arrow_? I've never even tried anything like thi-"

"That's a nice story, Aziraphale. Why don't you finish telling it whilst I'm bleeding out and dying on the floor?" Crowley snapped at him.

"Wel-Why can't you fix you?"

"Are you not done asking stupid questions yet? Don't you think if I could, I would have done? I'm too weak now. I've lost too much blood. Besides," He continued in a mutter, "I'm not even sure I _could_ fix myself, even if I weren't in bloody agony."

Crowley wouldn't have thought Aziraphale could turn any whiter. " _What_! Then what make you think I'll be able to?!"

" _Because_. Heaven's a lot better at stuff like this. The whole healing and 'divine miracles' thing. It's not really demon territory, angel." He sighed, and wobbled. Aziraphale knotted his fingers through Crowley's, seeming almost unaware of doing so. And Crowley felt a jolt like electricity buzz through him that had nothing to do with the pain.

"But," Aziraphale tried again, looking hopeless. "Why don't you just go to the hospital? They'll be able to fix it all properly. You don't need me to do it! Just go to A&E!"

"I _can't,_ angel."

"Why not?" He fumed.

"Because I-" Crowley sighed, now fuming himself. "Because I fucking hate hospitals, alright? And I'm not having another shitty doctor poke and prod at me. So you're helping me whether you want to or not."

Aziraphale started to argue, but Crowley was running out of time. He could feel the cold sheen of sweat moistening his features, and he would never live it down if he passed out in front of an angel.

Sycamore would be back any minute and then it's off to hospital we go. . .

"You owe me. How many times have you come to me for help? And I've always given it. Well, now it's payback time."

"Crowley. ." Aziraphale threw him a despairing look; his fingers fell slack against him.

" _Please_ , Aziraphale." Crowley looked him directly in the eye, his slitted unwavering pupils targeting twin oceans, sparkling and inset in Aziraphale's head. " _Please._ "

Crowley tried to look as honest and earnest as possible. If it was ever going to happen, it would be now. He bit his lip in apprehension, tasting the metal tang of his piercing. He noticed Aziraphale's eyes flickered down to watch as he did so, his line of sight lingering on his mouth. Interesting.

He let his teeth rasp over the red skin of his lip, biting down sharply as hurt rocketed through him. Aziraphale was still wavering. Crowley let out a burst of impatience and frustration but it ground out of his throat in a moan of pain.

"Look, you do this for me and we're even. Whatever you want, I'll owe you a favour, whatever. But c'mon, I know you can do this. You can Aziraphale. . . And it's not like it hurts or anything. . ." Crowley slumped his head forward (slowly, all-too-aware of the arrow through his fucking shoulder) and his hair swam into his eyes. Then he saw the angel's fingers tighten on his own, felt the pressure squeeze into his clammy palm.

"Fine. I'll do it - or I'll-I'll try."

"Yes! _Thank_ you."Crowley grinned in success, relief fogging through the pain. "Let's do this. Not to put the pressure on though, but this has to be done kind of quickly. Like, before madam nursey comes back out."

"What? Crowley-" Aziraphale swung his neck around, feverishly glancing to the doors. "Didn't she say the ambulance was on its way?"

"Yeah. So. Chop-chop! C'mon."

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley's hand so hard he yelped. And the angel followed it down with a glare. "You arsehole. I don't know where to begin-how should-"

"Are we alright in here?"

Nurse Sycamore was back, fumbling with the clasps on her apron. "I've had a call to say the ambulance is here. They're in the staff car park so not too far away - I'm surprised you lovebirds didn't hear the siren honestly." She was eyeing their clasped hands and serious but flustered expressions with amounting interest; she smiled and almost looked affectionate.

Crowley thought that Aziraphale must have finally caught onto the fact that Sycamore believed they were in a torrid, lovesick affair, as he dug his fingernails sharply into his skin.

"I'm just going to meet them," Sycamore continued, oblivious. "They're going to put you on a stretcher. Don't worry, you won't be strapped in or anything, it's just so you don't move that arm. I'll be back in a tick. You keep an eye on him." She said pleasantly to Aziraphale. Of course she liked the angel. The click of her shoes echoed down the hall.

Crowley yanked the angel back to his senses. "Okay, Aziraphale, it has to be now. Alright? Just do it."

But Aziraphale was busy freaking. "But I don't know how! Tell me how! How do I do it? I might just hurt you even more!"

"Calm down, okay? It's exactly like any other time you wanted something. You just reach out and take it. Yeah? You want to fix me. So fix me. Get rid of this fucking arrow-"

"Okay! Fine, shut up. Shut up. Let me think. I need to concentrate."

Crowley waited as patiently as he could, watching the angel's face screw up in thought. His eyebrows pulled together. His mop of messy silver-blonde curls almost shone under the horribly bright ceiling lights.

"Okay." Aziraphale said. "I've got an idea. I can't think of a way to do it with the arrow still in - what if I don't get all of it out? So. . I guess I'm doing it manually." He waited as if to hear an objection from Crowley, but when none came he took a deep breath. "OK then. Stay still. Don't move."

Crowley nodded and braced himself with what energy he had left. "In your own time. But preferably very quickly."

"Shut up! Now hold on to me with your good arm, and completely relax all the muscles in your other."

Crowley released Aziraphale's fingers and instead wrapped an arm around the angel's slim hips. Aziraphale watched him, momentarily frozen as Crowley slipped his hand under the hem of his t-shirt and gripped his belt. "It's better if I'm holding something that won't snap," He scowled at Aziraphale's suspicious stare (really? Suspicious at a time like this?), "You know, instead of one of your bones."

Aziraphale bristled but raised his hands to the tail-end of the arrow.

"Quickly, angel."

"If you say 'quickly' _one_ more time . . " And without any further ado, Aziraphale snapped the tail feathers of the arrow and flung it to the floor with a clatter. Crowley inhaled sharply, hissing through his teeth.

" _Don't give me any warning then._ " He scolded angrily.

"Here's your warning - this is going to hurt. So brace yourself." Aziraphale addressed the now-jagged edge breaching the skin in Crowley's arm. Placing one hand on the curve between Crowley's throat and shoulder, and gripping the fingers of his other around the exposed shaft of the arrow head, he whispered "Ready-?" and _pulled_ with all his strength and _yanked_ the arrow free. Feeling the rip of muscle and tissue on the way out.

Crowley screamed as the shaft was ripped out of his arm; a short, harsh bellow. And he breathed deeply and brokenly once it was over. He felt something hot and wet running down his arm with alarming speed. It felt thick.

"Oh, _fuck._ " He whispered, a burning agony flooding through his arm like fire. "Fucking. . hell." He felt like chopping his arm off might be worth it just to get rid of all this pain. And he opened his mouth to yell _Bring me a hammer!_ so he could hack his arm off and mush it to a bloody pulp.

And then, instantly, the pain was gone. It was like someone had switched off a tap of running water. And Crowley raised his head. His arm felt fine. Normal.

A burst of nervous laughter shattered the silence with relief. "I did it." Aziraphale said incredulously. "Ha-ha! It worked! I don't even know how!" Warm fingers flew over Crowley's shoulder, Aziraphale seeking an injury, a wound where there was none. "Nothing. Not even a scratch - Crowley? You okay?"

The angel dropped his arms and twisted his fingers together. "I-I thought it would be best to take the arrow out first. I-I-I don't know why. Sorry - sorry that it hurt-"

Crowley still held Aziraphale by the belt so he pulled him into his body, standing up and nuzzling close to the angel's skin. Aziraphale's breath barely had time to catch in his throat before Crowley leaned in, opened his mouth, and licked up his jawline.

And then they were entirely parted from one another, Crowley pulling the wet, bloodied sleeve of his t-shirt down over his shoulder. He glanced up and looked bemusedly at Aziraphale's frozen and accusing stare, his complexion newly defining the colour vermilion.

"You had my blood on your face." He explained soberly.

Aziraphale scoffed, despite the honey-glow in his cheeks. "Somehow I doubt that."

Crowley smiled softly (the kind of smile that made Aziraphale's insides feel like they were on the outside) and stepped forward, possibly about to thank the angel or to mutter something inappropriate about undressing the angel with his eyes, but he never found out because his step turned into a stagger as his knees buckled. Crowley reached behind him, seeking the medi-bed for support. Aziraphale stepped forwards, as if to offer his assistance, but the sound of fast-paced footsteps and the squeaking of wheels was approaching behind the hall doorway. Crowley's golden eyes widened and he paled.

Aziraphale was actually a tad worried. Even if there was no gaping wound in the demon's shoulder - almost his entire torso was red with blood. How many pints were in the human body again? Four?

"Fuck." Crowley uttered gracefully despite his ungraceful slouch. "We have to go."

Aziraphale looked at him like he'd just turned into a cactus. "Wha-?"

"What are they going to think when they see I no longer have an arrow in me? No wound?" Crowley hissed in a whisper. "I'm not strong enough to compel all of them! And it's not like angel-of-the-hour here is going to!"

"I object to that classification." Aziraphale muttered.

"Come here," Crowley murmured and dragged Aziraphale to him.

"Crowley-!"

" _Shut up_." He breathed in his ear, wrapping an arm around his waist ( _sweet-fucking-hell_ touching him felt good), and then quickly clamping a hand over Aziraphale's protesting mouth. "Be _quiet_! Don't make a sound, understand? And don't move."

Aziraphale squirmed against him, easily breaking Crowley's weakened hold over his arms, but Crowley kicked his calf muscle and hissed at him.

"What are you-?!"

" _Shhhh_!"

Crowley closed his eyes and willed with all his remaining strength and unlimited devilry that the humans trickling in through the door would not see them. They weren't here. The humans cannot see us. _They can't see us._

 _They can't see us._

". . He's just in here-" Nurse Sycamore stopped shortly in the room, her bright green eyes flickering over the bleach-white surroundings, swooping over the medi-bed where Aziraphale and Crowley were staggered against. She blinked, unseeing. Accompanying her were two Paramedics, a stretcher piled with assorted (presumable) medical equipment being wheeled between them.

"But-" She stared, dumbfounded. She twirled to the Paramedics, "He was just in here!"

Crowley felt Aziraphale go slack against him, as he too, was dumbfounded. Normally Crowley would have spent a considerable few seconds enjoying that sensation but now he was too busy concentrating. Without looking in a mirror, he knew his pupils would be dilated to the point that his yellow-green eyes would look black.

Sycamore was now flying to her office, and after a brief moment's pause, the sound of some intense rummaging, she re-appeared looking astonished. And then - horrified. "He must have run. Oh, God, he said he didn't like doctors! He was very distressed at the idea of going to hospital," She told the paramedics, one of whom had a pierced eyebrow and was scratching his shaved head, an expression like admiration arranged on his pointy features.

"He's got an arrow wound, right? You said it's fully pierced his arm to the other side?" The more serious-looking of the two was saying.

"Yes!" Sycamore exclaimed.

"He can't have gotten far. We'll check the car parks. Put out an alert. . . If you want to inform your superiors. ." The shaved-headed paramedic was nodding as the two of them wheeled the stretcher back down the hallway, Nurse Sycamore gabbling away at high speed. As soon as they were out of earshot, Crowley let out a gasp like a cannon blast. He let go of Aziraphale and sunk down onto the bed, leaning heavily on one of his elbows, panting like he'd just run a race. That he'd won. Despite it all, he was smug.

"What on earth was that?" Aziraphale demanded, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. "Crowley?" And his voice dropped a decibel, sounding substantially more concerned. "Crowley? Are you alright? You look like you're about to pass out."

"That's 'cos I am." Crowley muttered, doing his best to sit up. "I've lost too much blood. An. . And I've just about used up. . all my strength."

Aziraphale stared worriedly at him. "What was that? What did you do, why couldn't they see us?"

"I put up a reflective glamour." Crowley said, and chuckled at the look on Aziraphale's face. "I just made it so we were temporarily invisible, if you like."

"Right. Well, we should probably get you some help. If you're not going to go to the hospital, where are you going to go?"

"I don't need medical care."

"Right. And I don't need glasses to see long distance."

Crowley looked at him.

"I thought we were both telling lies."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "I just need your help. . Getting to my car."

"And where is your car? In one of the parks? Where the paramedics are looking?"

"Yeah."

"Great." Aziraphale sighed. "I shouldn't help you. You need to get a blood transfusion or _some_ thing."

Crowley fiercely shook his head, feeling the room swirl around him as he did so. " _Demon_ ," he insisted, "don't need extra blood. S'fine."

Aziraphale took a moment to have a private and manly hissy fit inside his head before twisting his hands together and resolving on looking thoroughly nettled. Finally, he said, "Get up then! So I can sneak you to your car. I presume you also want me to _drive_ it, seeing as you're in no fit state."

Aziraphale helped him to his feet and heaved his left arm over his shoulders - even if there was no longer an arrow through the right, it somehow didn't feel. . right to use that arm. Holding Crowley close to him, and ignoring the creeping flush this sent over his body, Aziraphale did his best to support the demon's weight as he navigated them out into the hall and out of the fire exit.

Once outside, Crowley helped to pick up the pace, but his head kept drooping against Aziraphale. "Remember," He mumbled, "we _can't_ be seen."

They passed the greenhouses, and the courtyard where Aziraphale usually locked his bicycle up.

"This is so insane," He muttered, throwing manic glances around them to make sure nobody was lurking nearby. "We're being so insane right now. All of this is insane."

"Welcome to the world," Crowley said wearily, looking pale. "You get used to it after a while."

* * *

 _ **Tune in next time for Aziraphale's pov, a sickly Crowley, the attempted murder of one Newton Pulsifier, and some unexpected developments between a demon and an angel.**_

 _ **Please review/follow if ya liked it!**_


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